


between the devil and the deep blue sea

by FrostyChess (chesswatchesclouds)



Series: One-Shot Collections [3]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, One Shot Collection, Reader-Insert, Song Lyrics Title, Title from the XYLO song, but currently the majority is Edward, description of torture, descriptions of violence, eventually there'll be a one-shot for each character, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-09-14 12:49:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 27,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9182479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chesswatchesclouds/pseuds/FrostyChess
Summary: a collection of one-shots featuring characters from ac4





	1. Declaration [Edward Kenway]

**Author's Note:**

> the beginning of a long put off transfer of fics from the romancingthecreed blog to here.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Edward stands along the beach, staggering where he stands and, it appears, unable to remain upright. Captain Vane is towering over him, unashamed in his scorn and appearing to be keeping his rage at bay, and you’re striding back the way you’d come before you can think of anything else._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eventually i'll have all the fics i've posted on my blog on ao3. 
> 
> ...this might take a while...

It’s sickeningly hot, despite the twilight descending upon Great Inagua, and you’ve locked yourself away in the office of Edward’s mansion. You’re eager to catch up with his books, to check them all over and see that everything’s in order, even if you know he won’t appear grateful for it.

He’s drinking with the crew tonight, probably lounging on the beach by the bonfire with a girl on each arm and a bottle of rum in his hand, and you’re in no mood to put up with his throwaway flirting. It only ever seems to happen when he can’t remember doing it, strangely enough; when he’s staggering and barely able to remain upright, stumbling into his mansion late at night/early in the morning.

No doubt it’s something you’ll be dealing with later as well.

You’re checking over the numbers of the Jackdaw’s last haul when a tired yawn distracts you. Slouching back in the chair in the study, you allow yourself a moment to breathe, a moment to rest your hand from the writing you feel as if has been never-ending. You rest your head against the cushion behind you with a fatigued sigh, the muscles in your hand aching from it all, and finally, reluctantly, push away from the desk and force yourself to stand.

You’ve been hunched over these books all day and a chance to stretch your legs is welcome. You roll your shoulders as you stand, rolling your neck as well as you make your way from the room. It’s quiet in the manor without Edward and Adé and Kidd discussing battle plans, without the three pirates shutting themselves in the study and talking about things you’ve no knowledge of.

(Edward always brushes off these conversations but he always leaves them seeming frustrated and irritable and you _know_ they’re important.)

It will be quiet until Edward stumbles in later, usually around dawn and long after you’ve retired for the night. You’re almost tempted to finish up everything quickly and join the crew at the bonfire but you don’t think you could handle the disappointment you’d feel when you see him with those other women. What else can you call the feeling? You’re not jealous, _not even close_ ( _so_ close), and you’d never dream of telling him what to do – he’s your _Captain_.

_Besides_ , you think, finding your way to the kitchen and lighting a couple of the candles there, _he wouldn’t listen anyway_.

Acting on your jeal- _disappointment_ would only create problems you’re not ready to address yet. You’re _good_ at hiding your feelings from him – you’ve been doing it for a while now, after all – and the thought of rejection is too much to bear. What would you do if that happened? You’ve nowhere to go, no one to help you – the Jackdaw, Great Inagua, Edward; this is your _whole life_ now.

Well, there is _some_ one who will help you but his offer had come with insinuations you’re not too keen on considering.

You swallow and shudder, hugging yourself to stave off a sudden chill. You catch sight of the flickering flames of the candles, sheer white fabric from the curtains swaying in the wind. You frown curiously and don’t realise the danger until it’s too late.

A large and broad-shouldered frame charges at you from the dark, knocking you off your feet and onto the hard floor. The body crushes you beneath it, forcing the air from your lungs and leaving you gasping in shock and pain. You react nearly too late, drawing your hands up and pushing at the body, seeing the glint of a blade in the dark.

With an angry yell you aim a punch at his temple, ignoring the throbbing in your hand after you connect, and you manage to wriggle free. Your attacker shouts something in French, so loudly you nearly miss your name among the din, being shouted from somewhere outside. You’re reaching for a weapon when the doors to the manor are thrown open.

Edward stands silhouetted in the doorway, a dark, hooded shadow that would terrify you if you didn’t recognise him. In his hand is one of his cutlasses, in the other a flintlock already aimed at your assailant. You scramble backwards as the large man faces Edward and you can see the snarl on his lips and the scowl on his face.

He’s too slow in reaching for the pistol at his side.

Edward’s by your side in an instant, his hands on your arms, at your jaw, on your face, encouraging you to look away from the body slumped on the floor, from the pool of blood flowing steadily outwards. His fingers are on your chin now, tilting your face away and his sea-blue eyes are so gentle now, so different from the fury you’d seen when he stood in the doorway.

He’s talking. “You’re safe,” he’s saying, over and over. “You’re safe now.”

You swallow uneasily, fighting the urge to vomit, and mutter, “Please don’t ask me to clean that up.”

* * *

After that incident, Edward doesn’t like to leave you alone in the manor. He won’t tell you why – it hurts you to think about it, but Edward’s lost crewmembers before and he’s never reacted quite like this before; it gives you hope that something _else_ might be at play here. It’s awful to think that way in the aftermath of it all though and you try not to.

Edward is always nearby now – _just in case_ seems to be the undertone to his actions – and while you appreciate the thought (even if he’s being a little suffocating), you don’t appreciate the woman hovering around him like flies. It’s difficult to remain civilised around him when hoard around him and test your patience.

He’s not going to be happy when he finds out you’ve snuck away from the tavern but the noise was deafening and the drink _too_ easy and if you’d stayed another minute you might have thrown yourself into the sea. Besides, you’re _pretty_ sure Adé saw you sneaking away so you’re not in complete danger.

Water laps around your ankles as you walk, slowly and leisurely, watching the sun descending along the horizon and the streaks of orange and pink that paint the sky. What were those words you were told as a child? _Red sky in the morning, shepherd’s warning. Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight_.

You glance over your shoulder as voices rise over the waves, distracting you momentarily from the beautiful scene before you. Edward stands along the beach, staggering where he stands and, it appears, unable to remain upright. Captain Vane is towering over him, unashamed in his scorn and appearing to be keeping his rage at bay, and you’re striding back the way you’d come before you can think of anything else.

Captain Vane has stormed away by the time you approach, reaching for Edward and steadying him as he sways unsteadily.

“What was all that about?” you wonder aloud, your voice a murmur.

Edward drunkenly slurs, “It’s not important,” before promptly throwing himself to the sand. He catches your hand and drags you down with him, tugging you close and putting an arm around your shoulders. “ _This_ is important.”

“Edward,” you say, and any attempt to pull away to _look_ at him is met with strong resistance and grumbling. “Captain Vane has been bothering you a lot lately –“

“Eh,” mumbles Edward, throwing himself onto his back and adjusting you so you lie with you head on his chest. His voice is a gentle rumble that vibrates through your ear. “I can handle a pissy prick like ‘im.”

You don’t doubt it for a second. “That’s not –“

“He wants to take you from me,” Edward says quite suddenly, surprising you into silence. You sit up, leaning your weight on your elbow as your peer up at him. “I’m not going to let that happen.”

“He wasn’t the one who tried to have me killed –“

“No,” interrupts your Captain. “He was quite irked about that one – said I wasn’t fit to be your captain if I can’t look after you.”

“But you saved me.”

“I told him that,” Edward says and while it’s impossible, the conversation makes him appear almost sober. “He’s wrong – about all of it.”

“I know,” you murmur.

“You’re not going to leave, are you?” He sounds so young now, so vulnerable with the drink, that you reach for his hand and squeeze it gently.

“Of course not,” you say. “Where else would I go?”

This is your home now, after all, and while Captain Vane’s offer is well-thought out and well-paid, there are aspects of it that disgust you. The Jackdaw is where you belong and her captain will always be _your_ captain.

“I love you, y’know,” Edward says tiredly but his eyes are so focussed on yours that you’d say he’s wide awake. The impact of them is ruined by the slur to his words and the taint of rum on his lips but they make you freeze nonetheless.

“Do you mean that?” you ask quietly, seriously, and he barks a laugh that immediately has you thinking that _no_ , he’s _not_ serious.

Then he says, “’Course I do. Why wouldn’t I?”

His grin is wry and crooked, his calloused hands gentle when they reach for you. His thumb traces a pattern on the back of your hand when he grasps it and there are a million thoughts going through your mind, all of them jumbled together and a mess. How do you respond to this? Silence isn’t the answer, but your lips can’t form any words.

Instead you squeeze his hand again and lean forward, pressing your lips to his gently, your smile just as soft – and if it all goes wrong in the morning, maybe he’ll be too drunk to remember. He returns the kiss anyway, fervently, pulling you closer with his hands on your back.

You fall asleep there, with your head on his chest and his hand rubbing circles on your back.


	2. Crochet [Edward Kenway]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Teach me,” he suggests, pressing it into your hands. At your disbelieving stare, he insists, “I’ll pay attention this time.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> modern day piece, fluffy and cute!
> 
> [requested through the blog by mapplestrudel]

Edward’s sleeping off a hangover and the last of his mates – Adé, who you’ve always liked the best and who had insisted upon helping tidy up the mess of last night before departing – has just disappeared out the door. Adé had been the soberest, he had told you, while Edward had crashed pretty early – it was his best friend’s quick thinking that saved your coffee table and for that you are _very_ grateful (it would be the third replacement this year otherwise).

Now you’re savouring the peace and quiet that comes with being kicked from your apartment for a night. Your fingers absentmindedly pulling taut the yarn and your hand grasping the crochet needle firmly but gently in the other, it’s silent save for your humming, a tune you heard on the radio the other day that seems to be everywhere now that you’ve heard it once.

It’s easy to keep count of your stitches when you don’t have to worry about being interrupted.

So, of course, not even an hour later there’s movement from the bedroom. He blinks blearily at you as you set your latest project on your knees to greet him, his blond hair a mess atop his head as he tiredly wipes the drool from his mouth.

“Mornin’,” he says around a yawn, tying off the strings of his pyjama bottoms. He’s shirtless and barefoot and when he throws himself onto the sofa next to you, you think he’s about to nod off again.

“Afternoon,” you correct mildly, reaching for your needle and wool and continuing where you left off. He snores softly in response, his head thrown back against the sofa cushions, and you continue your stitch. Your project is almost the size of your hand now and you start to consider what you’ll create; iPad cover? Gloves? Scarf?

There’s silence for another half hour, broken only by the soft snoring coming from the blond at your side, and by the occasional frustrated hum from you when you lose count of your stitches. Your hands move fast – probably _too_ fast, you reflect in hindsight – but somewhere you’ve gone wrong, somewhere you haven’t been paying as much attention, and now you have to unravel _a lot_.

You groan loudly, tugging apart and considering giving up for now – you’re exaggerating the mistake, it’s not _that_ bad, but you’re so annoyed with yourself that if you don’t stop you’ll ruin the whole thing.

“Lass?” He’s groggy and barely awake, running his hands down his face and yawning tiredly. “Everythin’ alright?”

“Fine,” you mutter, leaning over him to set your crochet in the box there – the box you don’t want to put it in and hope won’t be its final resting place.

Edwards sighs. “Not the _box_ ,” he comments idly. 

His arm hooks around your waist, drawing you closer to him once you’ve set down the – let’s face it – abandoned work. He nuzzles into your neck, sighing contentedly, and just when you think he’s going to keep you trapped there, just when you think he’s going to drift off again, he reaches for the square of crochet you’d set aside.

“Teach me,” he suggests, pressing it into your hands. At your disbelieving stare, he insists, “I’ll pay attention this time.”

Fully aware that Edward is on the verge of nodding off again at any moment, you start to crochet again, giving him hushed commentary and lessons that you’re sure he’ll have forgotten by tomorrow.

For a good hour, he has eyes for nothing and no one but the crochet and you.

And then he nods off again.

* * *

You find it a couple of weeks later, set inside a box with a little ribbon on the top.

Adé has made himself scarce for some reason or another, disappearing from the room before you could so much as ask him what this was, and you’ve yet to hear the drunken slur of Edward (where Adé and the gang are, drink is not far behind).

You don’t hear him and instead start to slowly unwrap the box addressed to you, almost hating to tear apart the pretty blue paper. You’re trying to think of everything he’s possibly done wrong lately, anything he _might_ have done wrong, something to warrant his needing to butter you up with a gift.

Instead what you find is a scarf, a pretty lilac colour like the wool you keep in one of the boxes, and made in the neatest crochet stitches you’ve ever seen. Questions are on your lips, begging for answers, and you receive them in the form of strong arms encircling your waist and lips peppering kisses along the back of your neck.

“Surprise,” murmurs Edward and then, jokingly, “See? I was paying attention.”


	3. Ruse [Mary Read/James Kidd]

You’ve known for a long time – because, _hello_ , it’s bloody obvious when you look hard enough – and you’re pretty sure your constant staring and frowning is unnerving to the woman.

Only just now she doesn’t _look_ like a woman; her dark hair is pulled into a bun and hidden behind a red bandana that accentuates her tanned skin and scars. The shirt she wears is pulled up and around her neck and she holds herself like a man. She plays her part well and it surprises you that the men in her life are just _that stupid_.

 _Pirates_ , you think, scoffing, _honestly._

They’re supposed to be the scourge of the Caribbean but they’re really a dumb bunch of drunken idiots.

It’s hard to concentrate when you’re trying to find the best time to approach her and when she leaves the tavern, you’re quick to abandon your tray and follow, eager to talk to her, eager to find out her secrets. But when you look around you, she’s disappeared and you’re alone in the silence of Nassau.

Hands grasp at your arms and tug you close, throwing you against the nearest wall as the woman towers over you, a snarl on her face and blade at your throat and when you swallow nervously, it only draws more attention to the shining metal.

“What do ye want?” she snaps. “Ye’ve been starin’ at me all night.”

And instead of answering seriously, like you should, you laugh breathlessly. Her voice doesn’t even sound _vaguely_ masculine and this close you can see the thick and dark eyelashes and the scar that runs through her eyebrow. She doesn’t appear to be a man in the slightest, yet the rowdy pirates she calls friend seem to think so.

“Incredible,” you breathe in delight. “Does anyone know?”

“Know what?” She accompanies her words with a threatening press of the metal blade to your throat.

“That you’re a woman!”

In hindsight, it’s not the smartest thing to say, not the smartest thing to do, to blurt out this woman’s biggest secret in the middle of Nassau, and she appears to agree. Her eyes widen and she presses herself closer to you, more threateningly, and the blade nicks the skin of your throat.

“Who told you?” she demands furiously. “Who knows?”

“What?” you gasp, because the delight is wearing off and in its place is terror. “No one! I found out on my own.”

“ _What_?”

You roll your eyes. “It wasn’t hard!”

“D’you have any idea how long I’ve managed to keep this ruse goin’?”

“A while, I imagine,” you say, “if the tone of your voice is anything to go by.”

Her lips quirk in amusement.

“You’re a canny one, aren’t ye?” she says and she leans back, far enough away that you can breathe easy again, but close enough still that the blade at your throat remains an ever present reminder of threat on your life, the threat of the knowledge you possess. “Who are ye goin’ t’ tell?”

“No one,” you say sincerely because, _really_ , you haven’t actually thought that far ahead. “I was just curious about what makes someone do this.”

She gives you a lopsided grin. “Huh.” She draws away and the blade disappears from your throat. You miss the heat of her body as soon as it’s gone but she has turned serious. “If you know, that means others won’t be far behind…”

Her voice trailing off has you piping up, “You need a cover, something to throw people off.”

“Like what?”

She’s stepped closer, her voice a breath of a whisper, and while you try to back up, you’re made away of the wall at your back that prevents you from doing so. She smells of spice and rum and the sea; an experienced sailor like you’ve heard. She’s leaning in close, her eyes stuck on yours and nervous and frantic breaths leave your slightly parted lips-

“Jaysus, Kidd!” says somebody from the stairs and the woman, Kidd, you know now, glances over her shoulder.

“Bugger off, Kenway,” she says, “I’m a little busy!”

When she meets your eyes, a knowing twinkle in them, you can tell you’ve both had the same idea.

* * *

It’s a business partnership, you tell yourself, nothing more.

Kidd pays you a handsome amount of money to keep up the ruse of a concerned lover in Nassau, waiting devotedly for he who she cares about more than life to return to her arms. The money is _good_ , more than you could have ever hoped to make in the tavern, and Kidd is good company. It works for both of your respective interests and throws others off Kidd’s secret, and you get to sit on Kidd’s lap and listening to interesting stories of the high seas from her companions.

You’ve taken a particular liking to Captain Kenway, who Kidd seems to be close to as well, but his stories are nowhere near as exciting as Captain Thatch’s – the infamous _Blackbeard_. You’re always eager to hear his stories and he’s always eager to tell them, much to the chagrin of the other captains who you know would like some of your attention.

Kidd especially seems pleased that you’ve drawn most of the attention from the other pirates and even more pleased that it’s drawn eyes away from her. You sit in her lap most days, or by her side with her hand on your thigh; it looks possessive to other pirates, a warning to stay away, but you see it for what it is, a comforting gesture to calm you when things get hard.

They are pirates, after all, crude and lewd and dirty, and even with the money Kidd is paying you sometimes there is only so much you can take.

“Ignore Vane,” says Kidd one day as you stroll down the beach. “He’s all bark and no bite.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard,” you mutter nervously.

Kidd shrugs and takes your hand in her cold and thin ones. “I’ll protect you,” she says, “don’t ye worry about that.”

 _I’m not_ , you want to say but the admission would only change everything about your arrangement. To say so would be to draw attention to the fact that you feel like things are getting different, that things between yourself and Kidd are different.

“Mary,” Kidd says suddenly, and when you look at her there’s a little grin on her lips and a twinkle in her eyes. When you frown, she admits, “That’s my name. Use it if ye like.”

The _in private_ goes unsaid.

* * *

She takes you with her to Kenway’s island headquarters and bids you stay with him in his grand mansion on the hill – for your protection, she tells you, because bad things and bad people are coming for Nassau. You don’t know why she’s leaving you here, why Kenway’s letting her – but you haven’t missed his slips of the tongue, minor mishaps of ‘ _Mary_ ’ instead of Kidd and always in private company and away from the other pirates – because you’ve always expected this partnership to end at some point or another.

Mary had been very insistent on sweeping you away from the rotting shithole of Nassau and to the glorious island paradise Captain Kenway oft disappears to. You don’t quite understand why she felt it imperative that you come here, why she felt that it was the best thing for you; you think it would have been easier for her to give up the goose and be honest with the other pirates, to say it was all a ruse and leave you to fend for yourself.

It would have been cheaper for her, easier for her, instead of having you pack up your things and moving you into a house that you feel you don’t quite belong in.

Edward’s nice enough, welcoming enough, and it’s barely there anyway, often off on the Jackdaw and taking prizes. You long for the time Mary spends with you and hate the months you spend alone in this grand old house that’s empty of people and belongings.

“What are you thinking about?” you ask idly, laying on the beach just off the bonfire, on one of the rare days Mary is actually with you.

“How easy it would be t’ just stay here,” she admits. “To not worry about anythin’.”

“You could stay here,” you tell her but she barks a disbelieving laugh.

“What a life that would be,” she muses.

“A good one?”

“A quiet one.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” you say and you start to sit up, running your fingers through the sand and avoiding her eyes. You won’t admit to her that it’s getting harder and harder for you to see her leave the island, that it’s getting harder and harder for you to say goodbye and to let her go, to let her go out there flying the black and with the knowledge that pirates are a dying breed now.

“Oi Kidd,” shouts a voice down the shore, close to the ships, and he doesn’t need to say anything else. Mary doesn’t need to say anything else.

She has to leave now, again, leave you alone here and with your admissions stuck on your tongue again and your feelings buried away. You want to tell her that it won’t be long before she steps on that ship and doesn’t come back. You want to tell her that there won’t ever be a last time, that she should give up this life while she has the chance, before the hunters catch them and she finds herself at the gallows.

“Mary,” you start, following her as she gets to her feet, stumbling on the sand in your haste. “Don’t go.”

It’s a conversation you’ve had a million times, a conversation that ends the same way every time, and yet every time you speak earnestly and pleadingly. Every time you hope her answer will be different. She glances back at you, expression flat and eyes dark, and you know her answer before she even opens her mouth.

 _It’s always the same_ , you think dismally.

“I can’t,” she tells you, and the pain in her voice keeps your anger at bay. “There’s more than pillaging and raiding that I need t’ be doin’.”

“Surely there’s someone else who –“

“Aye,” she interrupts. “There is. But he won’t.” There’s a smirk on her lips when she looks over her shoulder to you, so familiar, and she adds, “Why so worried?”

Immediately defensive and unwilling to confess anything so soon, you say, “I’m not.”

She clearly doesn’t believe you; she narrows her eyes suspiciously and cocks her head while you try your utmost to remain nonchalant. It’s harder than you anticipated because she has this way of knowing when you’re lying and now she won’t leave until she pulls the truth from you.

 _I love you_ , you want to say, _don’t leave because it might be the last time_.

It hangs unsaid between the two of you, easily read on your face. It’s a plea, a desperate wish for her to _stay_ , just once, that you already know will be ignored because of her duty.

So she surprises you by striding forward and sweeping you into her arms, pulling you close and setting her lips to yours, unsaid words between the two of you be damned. The kiss is hungry and dirty and nothing like you’ve ever experienced from anyone, and her long fingers catch in your hair while you desperately cling to her.

“Don’t go,” you say again, a whisper between shared breaths, as you struggle to catch yours. “ _Please_.”

“I love you,” she says, pressing her forehead to yours. You’ll cherish this moment because in the seconds after it’s all you have left. That voice shouts again and Mary releases you, leaving quickly and without a backwards glance.


	4. Wayward Father, Lost Daughter [Edward Kenway & Mary Read/James Kidd]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> requested by exodarkwolf16 on tumblr!

With your eyes closed, it’s easy to imagine that you’re somewhere else, _anywhere_ else.

The quiet chatter from the crowds around you drowns out the gentle sound of the waves hitting the beach, a sound you’ve ached to hear for days but have been unable to, as closely watched as you have been by your father.

Even when he thinks you’re not paying attention you can feel his eyes on your back, on your face, trying to show he cares while being unable to draw himself away from his business.

You think he should care a little more, think he should be showing a little more emotion over the death of his wife.

 _Nothing gets in the way of business_ , he’d told you once before, years ago when you were still a little girl. Out of all his lessons to you, you hate that this is the only one to stick.

The sun is setting over Havana and from your balcony overlooking the courtyard, you can see your father and his guests, crowding over a table and discussing their _business_. He hasn’t checked on you once since returning from the wake, leaving you alone with all these people in your – _his home_ because you’ll never feel comfortable here, not now, not when the move is still so recent and you’re so _alone_ – home.

They hover but don’t speak and you can see and feel their worried gazes, hear their whispers and titters as they eat your food and drink your wine.

You want them to leave; you want to be left alone to your misery and isolation, to the lonely life you’re going to lead now that your mother is gone.

Your father hasn’t glanced up from his meeting once, hasn’t stepped into the house once to check on you. You wonder if he ever loved your mother at all, if he even loves you.

You turn your face away and stare at the cracks in the stone of the balcony, your glass of wine held in your hand and long forgotten. It would be inappropriate for you to get drunk right now, surrounded by mourners and people of standing, people who _matter_ to your father even if he can’t be bothered to converse with them.

It would be terribly inappropriate for you to use wine as an outlet for your grief.

You down the glass quickly, bathed in the light of the setting sun and watching the orange glow across the sea.

Your mother loved the sea. How terrible a thing it is that travelling across it is what killed her.

You wave down a server and replace your glass, downing it just as quickly as the first and blinking away tears as you turn away and step back into the large hall. God, they’re all staring at you with such sympathy, such _pity_ , and it makes you sick.

“Miss,” says a small voice to your left, as you’re downing another glass of wine and reaching for a full one.

The butler, you note, and you don’t know his name, not like you would back _home_ because you’ve only just got here and everything’s so new and different and strange and horrible. In his hand he holds a letter, the envelope littered with what you think are scorch marks and bearing no symbol on the wax seal.

You take it from him hesitantly, turning it over in your hand, this way and that, frowning at the simple and dirty thing and wondering who could possibly be writing to you when you don’t know anyone in this new place.

All that’s written on the back is your name, in a hand that reminds you of chicken scratches.

“A gentleman left it for you at the door,” says the butler. “He did not leave a name for which you might contact him.”

 _Interesting_ , you think, _and mildly unsettling_.

You nod gratefully, mutter a “thank you,” and resolve not to open it until you’re locked in the safety of your room and far away from these prying eyes.

A lady you don’t recognise saunters up to you, fanning herself with her hand and wearing a sickly sweet and sympathetic smile.

Yes, it will be a while before you have any privacy from these vultures.

* * *

The letter is signed by a man named _Thatch_ , a name you recognise but don’t want to believe because really, why would the infamous _Blackbeard_ be sending you a letter? Why would Blackbeard, one of the most wanted pirates in the West Indies, risk docking in a port like Havana just to deliver a letter?

It must be a joke, some jest from one of the friends you left behind to come to this dreadful place, and a suggestion bites at the back of your mind – _throw it in the fire, forget about it_.

But the words he writes, as unbelievable as you find them, are setting off alarm bells in your head and forcing you to question everything you knew about your mother, everything you know about your _father_.

Including if he actually _is_ your father.

The letter lies open on your vanity, the words burned into your mind as you sit perched on the edge of your bed and stare at it. Your hands are shaking and you fidget restlessly, trying to convince yourself that it’s all a ruse, that Blackbeard wants to trick you like you’ve heard pirates are wont to do, that he’s _lying_.

But _damn it_ his words make _sense_.

You don’t want them to; you hate yourself for believing it, for doubting your mother’s fidelity to your _father_ but the more you think about them, the more you stare at that letter hoping it will spontaneously combust, the more you begin to see the reason and the _truth_ of his words.

You’ve never looked like that man downstairs, still tucked away in his business meeting after the worst day of your life. And that man downstairs has never treated you well, never _really_ treated you like his daughter.

You reach for the letter again, your eyes skimming over the words you’ve already read a dozen times.

He offers passage to _Nassau_ , the pirate republic, where, as your father – only is he really your father after all? – has told you, the worst scum of the world have settled.

You read the letter over and over again, the shaky signature penned at the bottom of the page, _Edward Thatch_ , and it would so easy to dismiss his words as simple fallacy and throw the letter to the flames but you can’t let it go.

Perhaps there is some truth to his words, you reason, and there’s no way you’ll know for sure unless you meet him, _face to face_.

You won’t know if his words are true until you see him for yourself, until you can decipher if all the features of your face you could never see in your mother or father are actually from _him_.

 _Meet my associates_ , you read again, _the noon following your receiving this letter. They will see to your safe arrival to Nassau._

* * *

The letter doesn’t mention where to meet Thatch’s associates – you know, you’ve checked _a lot_ – and you’ve walked through the market place four times, keeping your eyes peeled but finding nothing.

You think it’s time to give up and return to your home, feeling played and a fool, when a hand gently grasps your elbow and guides you from the busy crowds into a nearby alleyway.

There’s a man waiting for you there, dark haired and tanned, with a scar running through his eyebrow and down his cheek. He’s adjusting the red bandana he wears, watching you closely with eyes that sparkle with secrets.

You’re clutching the letter tightly in your hand, looking between these two and wondering if you’re supposed to be feeling this excited.

The first man draws down his hood and stands beside the other. They share a glance and you note that they’re unmistakably pirates; they’re scarred and heavily armed and not at all subtle as they watch the crowds.

“She looks just like ‘im,” comments Red Bandana, and you flush under his scrutiny, still clutching tight to the letter and thinking _means to an end, means to an end_.

“Aye,” agrees the other, drawing down his hood. “Spitting likeness.”

He’s blond, the complete opposite of his companion save for the tans they both share. His blue eyes rake up and down your body and if you’re not mistaken, there’s _approval_ in his gaze.

If you hadn’t convinced yourself last night to see this through, you’d be off.

“Right,” says Red Bandana, drawing your attention, “let’s be off then.”

Wide-eyed, you take a step back from the two pirates; this is moving a little quickly for you, you’d expected some sort of discussion and a warning, some time to pack your valuables.

(Although, your father made it very clear before you moved to this damnable place that whatever valuables you had from your home would be left, so, _really_ , what valuables do you actually have?)

Still, that doesn’t make this turn of events any less shocking.

“Now?” you ask and your voice is shaking as hard as your hands.

“Easy lass,” says Red Bandana, and you notice that Blondie is looking at something behind you, his expression serious and alert.

The first thing you see when you look over your shoulder is the yellow coats. They’re looking at your little meeting and muttering under their breaths, and it’s very clear to you that if you remain here for much longer, you’ll be interrupted.

It’s do or die; you can walk away and probably never have the opportunity to meet your father, or you can decide here and now to go with them, go to Nassau and leave this life behind for a _better one_.

There’s really no question, is there?

* * *

You’re sure it shouldn’t take long to get to Nassau, not as long as the journey from Kingston to Havana, in any case, but you’re also still wary of the pirates who have taken you – _saved_ you – from your home. Nerves have settled in now and your stomach churns as you watch Havana, until it’s no bigger than your thumb, until it’s gone altogether.

Your journey to Havana had been uneventful, confined to below deck as you had been and holding your mother’s hand all the while, and only now are you finding an appreciation for the open sea, for the sunlight that sparkles off the glistening crystal sea. It hadn’t been this bright when you’d arrived in Havana all that time ago; it had been dull and miserable, just like how you had been feeling.

Now you feel bright and free, and the waves crash gently against the ship, the _Jackdaw_ Blondie had told you warmly, proudly, as Red Bandana had swept forth and reached for your hand, helping you gently onto the deck.

You hadn’t missed the irritated scowl sent Bandana’s way but you’d been too preoccupied with your new surroundings to wonder why that could possibly be.

The crew hardly spared you a glance, but a large intimidating man standing by the helm appraised you and studied you closely as you drew nearer.

Finally, he greeted, loudly and jovially and his voice sounded nothing like you expected from his stern expression, “Captain Kenway, I see you have been successful.”

“Aye,” agreed Blondie, sweeping past you to take the helm. “Thatch will be pleased.”

He started barking orders as Bandana crept up to your side, guiding you gently out of the way of the crew as they scuttled past you, preparing to cast off. You were led to the back of the ship, past barrels, and Bandana stayed with you until Captain Kenway – and you can’t help the shiver that runs down your spine at the name, another name you know because of your father, another infamous pirate with a massive bounty on his head – called to him, shortly after the ship had gotten underway.

Kenway left the ship in the capable hands of his quartermaster, for you know that’s who he is now, as intimidating and fearsome as he seems, and he and Bandana disappeared into the captain’s cabin.

You haven’t seen either of them since.

You’re largely left to your own devices and the crew ignore you save to huff if you get in their way. The quartermaster, Adé he’d introduced as you walked by him earlier, is keeping an eye on you, as though worried that you might suddenly throw yourself overboard.

It’s not something you’ve even considered, not something you’re really planning – not unless this whole venture turns out to be a bad idea and you’ve walked willingly into a kidnapping.

(It actually sounds like the kind of stupid thing you’d do, now that you think about it).

But the words in the letter – and you’re still holding it in your hand, reading it whenever you get a spare moment, just to remind yourself why you’re doing this in the first place – sound so honest, so _real_ , and you need to know if it’s true.

You _need_ to know this man, this pirate, and you need to see for yourself what your mother saw in him, and if you can see it too.

Perhaps this is the start of a new life, a life of freedom and leisure, with a man you may grow to believe as _truly_ family.

* * *

“He’s not all bad though, lass,” James Kidd is quick to defend, and he adjusts his red bandana once more. His eyes never leave your face. “Reckon Thatch is one of the most honourable pirates there is, if ever there was such a thing.”

“Come off it, Kidd,” says Edward, and you eye him carefully as he saunters towards the two of you.

You’re perched on a barrel at the back of the ship once more, Kidd beside you as he fiddles with a strange mechanism on his arm brace. It’s a weapon, you’ve surmised, but you’re not willing to ask, still ever aware that you’re in the presence of pirates, and you’ve seen two of a similar kind of Edward’s arm bracers.

“No pirate worth his gold is _honourable_ ,” continues Captain Kenway and that doesn’t comfort you in the slightest. Edward is silent for a few moments, pondering, and then finally, he says, “A better word to describe him would be _avuncular_.”

“Awfully big word for you, Kenway,” muses Kidd, and you watch, fascinated, as a blade pops out of his brace at the wrist. Kidd holds it up, checking for something but you’re not quite sure what, twisting his wrist this way and that until finally the blade slides back into place with a quiet _snick_.

“Piss off, Kidd,” is the waspish reply, and Edward stops beside you, leaning idly on the barrel on your other side. You look between the two of them fondly, growing used to their teasing interactions in the few weeks you’ve been aboard the _Jackdaw_.

You can see why Thatch sent these two, why he trusted them with this rather than anyone else; they work well together and there’s an obvious trust between the two of them that makes you feel safe.

And they seem to have grown equally fond of you – a good thing, you imagine, if you find a home in Nassau. Having allies before you even arrive in the Pirate Republic already gives you a leg up, you think – _hope_ – and someone to fall back on if Thatch sees you and realises he’s mistaken.

Edwards bumps his shoulder into yours, as if sensing the dark turn your thoughts have taken.

“We’re a day’s sail from Nassau, lass,” he says confidently and his words do nothing to calm your pounding heart of the fluttering in your stomach.

“Kenway,” warns Kidd and his arm comes round your shoulders, drawing you to him. He whispers, his warm breath ghosting over your ear, “Deep breaths, lass. That’s it.”

You sigh, feeling comforted but no better.

“Is it too late to throw myself overboard?” you wonder aloud, staring at the large sails unfurling over the ship.

They don’t answer right away, and you wonder if you’ve said the words too deadpan, too seriously, wonder if they think you’re not joking and will take steps to prevent you from doing so.

Instead, laughter bubbles out of Kidd’s throat and he draws you closer to him when you smile, finally beginning to relax. Edward’s scowling again, looking between the two of you with eyes burning with indignation. He looks as though he’s been robbed of something, some kind of treasure, you think, but you’ve no idea why it might be.

Before you can ask, Kidd says, “Come on, man,” and reaches out to tug him towards you.

Before you know it, you’re sandwiched between the two pirates, laughingly returning the embrace – somewhat awkwardly, you imagine, with Edward having almost lost his footing and stumbling into you.

But you’re content, more content than you’ve been for a while, and you pray to whatever god might be listening that it will last.

* * *

“Thatch?” repeats the pirate gruffly, and he looks over Edward and Kidd angrily before returning his stare to the mug of rum set before him. “Left last night. Won’t be back for another month, I reckon.”

“Damn it, Thatch,” you hear Edward mutter irately, and on your other side Kidd scoffs.

“He’s a bloody coward,” Kidd remarks as Edward lead you outside, away from the prying eyes of the pirates in the tavern. You must be mistaken, but you’re sure Edward’s glower is warding off anyone who tries to approach, and you must be hearing things, because you doubt Kidd would be drawing his hidden blade against ordinary, everyday pirates.

But these thoughts only distract you for minutes before you realise the situation you’re in; Thatch, the man who wrote to you, has disappeared, and you’re alone in Nassau with Edward and Kidd who don’t owe you anything. They got you here- they could just as easily leave you and continue with their lives.

You won’t blame them if they do.

You swallow the lump in your throat. “What now?”

“Now, lass,” says Kidd and his voice and expression soften as he faces you, tucking your hair behind your ear and encouraging you to look at him. “We wait for that bloody fool to come back.”

“I reckon we find out where he’s gone,” Edward proposes, and his hand grasps your elbow gently, drawing you away from Kidd and to him. “Follow him.”

“Aye, say we do,” growls Kidd, and you’re feeling like a toy being tugged between two toddlers. “When we find him, what then? Hand her over like cargo?”

“We ‘ave a job to do, Kidd,” says Edward and you look away to hide the hurt that crosses your eyes, the pain that flares in your chest.

“Come on, man,” says Kidd. “This is what he _wants_. As soon as we leave Nassau, Thatch will come scampering back. A chase that never ends.”

“You’re suggesting we stay put?”

“Aye,” agrees Kidd smugly, and you have a feeling his sudden arrogance has a _lot_ to do with you; you’ve stepped closer to him, farther away from Edward and his biting words that have stung you. “Better we stay in one place and catch ‘im out than humour him on his wild goose chase.”

Edward shakes his head, clearly frustrated, but argues no more. Instead, after looking between you and Kidd with a heated glare – one that seems to zone in on Kidd’s arm over your shoulders – he turns and storms off, back into the tavern you’d exited not minutes before.

You watch him leave sadly, perplexedly, wondering if the right thing to do would be to go after him, to calm him down, to talk things out and act logically. Perhaps there’s a reason Thatch has left, a good, logical reason (the churning of your stomach tells you there _isn’t_ but you can’t go back to Havana, not now, not _ever_ , and you need some hope, damn it!) and he’ll back soon and you’ll sit and talk, daughter to – _ahem_ – father.

“Give him time, lass,” Kidd says, guiding you away from the tavern and Edward’s retreating form. “He’ll come round.”

You nod wordlessly but you watch Edward until you can’t anymore, until the shadows swallow him whole.

* * *

You’ve grown comfortable in Nassau, used to the rowdy pirates and the sweltering heat in the weeks you’ve stayed, but you’re well aware of how these weeks have dragged.

Edward and Jim have accommodated you well enough – not as well as you would be if you decided to remain in Havana but you’re well aware that it’s a good idea to keep _that_ little footnote to yourself – but you can tell they’re restless.

You can understand – you feel the same way.

You’re as agitated as they are but you’d hazard to say that you’re the angriest of the three of you.

The _nerve_ of this man, you think, with an angry kick to a stone at your feet, to ask you to come to Nassau and meet him, face to face, wayward father to lost daughter, only for him to up and leave the _night beforehand_.

“He’s not coming back,” Jim mutters from his perch. He’s using a branch to scribble in the sand, watching the designs as they’re washed away by the sea and starting over; a fresh start, a new slate, not unlike what you’d hoped for your meeting with Thatch.

Edward shakes his head, standing ahead of the two of you and never looking away from the horizon, not once, not even when you come to stand beside him.

“This is hopeless,” you murmur angrily. “If he never actually wanted to meet me –“

“No, he does, lass,” Jim reassures and it’s amazing, you think, that things have grown between you so much that he’s no longer _Kidd_ , he’s _Jim_ , friendly and kind and driven. He’s Jim, your friend, no longer _Kidd_ the pirate.

You huff. “Oh, yes, of _course_ he does.”

“Kidd’s right,” Edward drawls. He tosses away the branch and joins you at the shore, the water lapping at your ankles as the three of you wait for a ship that you doubt will ever arrive. “He might’ve had too much rum when he was writing the letter, that’s true –“

“Edward,” Jim warns but you’ve already heard the words and they’re whirling around in your head, taunting, haunting.

 _Drunk_ , you think glumly, _he had to be drunk to send the letter_.

It’s painful because you’re not surprised, not really; the shaky hand of the letter that you’d thought was only nerves… it’s clear that it was shaky for an entirely different reason now.

You’ve been so stupid- of course the letter would be the product of a drunk mind. You’ve never met before – you had been entirely unaware of his existence until two months ago – and it’s become so clear to you now that he might have never wanted to meet you in the first place.

 _I need to leave_ , you think, your thoughts darkening once more, _I need to go home_.

“Lass,” says Jim, and there’s a questioning lilt to his voice that has you turning your back on your companions so they won’t see the way your face has fallen, your hands clenching into fists at your sides.

The words you speak are devoid of any emotion.

“How soon can we leave Nassau?”

Edward says your name softly and a hand brushes your elbow, as if to turn you towards them, to convince you to rethink the decision you’ve already made. It was foolish of you to think you could start a new life here, to have a real _home_.

“Whenever you want,” says Jim and you can hear the hushed argument between the two men, the hisses shot back and forth.

Neither of them are happy at this choice, you think, and you’ve no idea why. They brought you here to meet your- to meet Thatch. Nothing more. Obviously Thatch has no intention of meeting you and this whole trip has been a waste of your time.

In another month you’ll be in Havana, back to your less than exciting existence, and if you never receive another from Edward Thatch, it’ll be too damn soon.

* * *

The _Jackdaw_ is making quick time to Havana and you’re not sure why your heart feels so heavy, why you feel so _sad_.

This is what you _want_ , after all, this is what you asked for.

Edward is silent at the helm, offering monosyllabic answers to whomever tries to start up conversation with him, and Jim is equally quiet beside you as you watch Nassau shrink and grow further and further away from you.

“This isn’t the end,” Jim murmurs. At your stony silence, he insists, “It’s not.”

“It feels very final,” you say, after a few minutes retaining your silence.

The wind bites at your cheeks and the waves batter the side of the ship. The weather is turning; the sky is overcast and dark and rain begins to spot your clothes. It’s turning cold and Edward’s barking orders while Jim’s hand cups your elbow.

It’s an action you’re so used to that you don’t even flinch, not anymore, but his actions tug at your heart, force you to think about the life you’re going back to- a life without Jim and Edward, and the unlikely friendship you find you’ve created with them.

They’re perhaps the only good thing to come out this, you think, and leaving them for Havana, for _existence_ , not _life_ , is difficult.

“Jim,” calls Edward suddenly, and your companion draws his hand away and leaves your side as thunder rumbles overhead.

You cast your eyes skyward, the rain falling harder, tiny needles hitting your skin. You haven’t seen lightening, you’re sure you haven’t; why would there be one without the other?

 _No_ , you realise and the thought hits you hard, fear that claws at your throat and suffocates, _not thunder_.

Jim shouts your name and suddenly he’s by your side again as the crew of the _Jackdaw_ bustle around you and prepare for battle. Your heart skips a beat as you whirl on the spot, spying him striding quickly towards you.

The dark look in his eyes and the stern expression on his face has fear pulsing through you, drawing your hands back to your sides where you’d tried to reach for him, for comfort.

No, your Jim is _Kidd_ again, a pirate and a fighter, and you see it now, silhouetted behind him – the other ship. The sails are red like blood, and large and full, and it’s bigger than the _Jackdaw_ , but somehow faster – the wind, you note, is against you, against Edward and the crew. The captain moves quickly, with a touch of frantic fury to his movements as he turns the large helm.

Jim – no, _Kidd_ – grabs your arm and begins to tug you towards the steps, past the helm and past the captain barking his orders.

You grasp the bannister tightly, stopping Kidd from dragging you any further, and Edward’s attention shifts to you, his expression tight and his hands clutching the helm tightly.

For a moment, you’ve no idea what to say, and Jim’s tugging at your arm insistently, pressing you to _move_ -

You yank your arm from his grasp and hurry to the captain, clasping his arm when you draw near enough and pressing a chaste kiss to his stubbly cheek before you can regret it. You’re frightened, terrified, but the thought of leaving Edward here, of leaving Jim here, even though you _know_ you have to, scares you more than the other ship could.

“Be careful,” you urge and you find Jim’s hand, entwining your fingers, the brief amount of contact, of closeness, you might be able to receive before the unthinkable occurs.

And Edward _laughs_ and smiles and says, “Aye, lass. You needn’t worry about that.”

The captain’s cabin is obviously Edward’s, you let yourself think, in need of the distraction as you grab the shirt throw haphazardly over the chair, the goblet set beside the naval maps. Whatever’s in it looks questionable, tastes far worse, but it calms your nerves and settles your churning stomach.

The shirt smells like him and you clutch it tightly in your hands, close to your chest, your fingers buried deep in the stained fabric.

“Lass,” Jim says firmly. He’s standing by the door, one hand resting on the hilt of the sword at his hip and the other on the door handle. You watch his eyes dart from your face to the shirt in your hands and back again, watch his lips try to form words.

You don’t know what to say either; this situation is unthinkable. You know what red sails mean, you know the threat this represents; _pirate hunters_.

You force yourself forward before you can rethink, before you can talk yourself out of it, and press your lips to his, Edward’s shirt still clutched in your hands.

The kiss is quick and sweet and you don’t want to step away, you don’t want to watch him leave the cabin, don’t want to watch him turn his back and draw his sword and maybe _die_.

“Well,” he breathes, when he’s stepped away, “that’s some incentive to stay alive then.” The smile on his face is quick and fleeting and _cheeky_ and so like the Jim you’ve come to know that you almost forget what’s happening, what’s about to happen.

Edward shouts from the deck and the moment is broken, replaced with cold fear that clenches around your heart.

Jim’s hand brushes your cheek as he leaves, the last touch of tenderness you receive before he turns to leave.

“Don’t open this door for anyone but myself or Kenway,” he orders.

And then he’s gone.


	5. Prize [Charles Vane]

You can feel his eyes on you as soon as he walks through the door.

Beside you, Edward stiffens near imperceptively but he ignores your startled look and instead plasters an easy smirk on his face and says nothing to you. You glance up to see the newcomer and no introductions are needed; you know him by the manner of his walk, by the heads that turn away and avoid his stare.

You can hear the whispers from the table behind you, the muttered, “ _What’s he doing back so soon_?”

Edward seems to be thinking along the same lines. “Vane,” he greets, and beneath the surety in his voice you can hear the wariness and bite. “Back so soon? Things not work out the way you wanted?”

“On the contrary,” returns Charles Vane, and you manage to hold in your shiver as his eyes scan over you. You hope you’re imagining the quirk of his lips that follows. “I’m lookin’ for a second set of hands to help on a big haul. You in, Kenway? Or would you rather stay in this hole you’ve dug for yourself?”

Edward’s hands clench into fists before he gestures to the seat opposite the two of you. He leans forward, making a show of seeming interested and intimidating – though it doesn’t seem to work that well when faced with one such as Captain Charles _Vane_ , who is all but the definition of the word – and you understand this to be Edward’s _Captain Kenway_ pose.

“What sort of prize are we talking about?”

* * *

“I don’t like this,” you admit as Edward steps onto the deck of the Jackdaw. “I don’t like this at all.”

Across the harbour, you see the Ranger and her crew bustling about the deck and preparing to cast off. Vane has agreed to lead the way to the ship – the name has slipped your mind – and Edward is barking orders at the men around you as you follow behind him.

“What was I supposed to do?” he asks, stomping towards the helm and looking about as pleased as all this as you feel.

“Say no?” you suggest lightly, circling around him to stand at his other side. You nod to Adé as you pass. “You do realise that’s an option, don’t you?”

“And pass up the possibility of a haul that could set us up for life?”

“There are other prizes, Captain,” you remind him. “Less _dangerous_ prizes too.”

Edward looks triumphant. “I see,” he muses, and you catch Adé’s irritated frown when you look to him over the Captain’s shoulder. “You’re afraid.”

“Nervous, Captain,” you correct boldly, “and if the rumours about Captain Vane are anything to go, I think I have a right to be.”

“Captain Vane’s reputation speaks for itself, Captain,” cuts in Adé. “We should be cautious.”

“And we will be,” says Edward, and he looks every bit like a man cornered; frustrated and snappish.

He starts to bark his orders, clearly dismissing the conversation, but over his head Adé catches your eyes again. You roll yours with a vague gesture towards your captain. Adé nods his agreement with a wry grin.

Overhead the sails are let loose and the Jackdaw sets sail.

* * *

“I don’t like this,” you say again, as the behemoth of a ship comes into sight.

“Really,” quips Edward, but you can see the worry on his face, the wary frown across his brow. “You hadn’t mentioned.”

The skies have turned a dark and ominous grey, and the waves smack and crash against the ship harshly. There’s a storm coming, a big one, and you’re not the only one worried by it.

“This is madness, Captain,” warns Adé and you nod your agreement. “If Captain Vane had any sense he’d give up this mad venture.”

“Aye,” agrees Edward, and he spins the helm, turning the Jackdaw and drawing her up close to the Ranger. “Take the helm, quartermaster,” he orders, and he brushes his hand against your arm, his silent signal for you to join him.

Vane stands at the side of his ship, watching the Jackdaw with interest. His eyes swivel to Edward as he leans against the wood, and the smirk you see there does nothing to settle your already electrified nerves.

“What’s the matter, Kenway?” he hollers amusedly. “Lost your nerve?”

Edward ignores the jibe. “That sky doesn’t look friendly, Vane,” he says. “We ought to forgo this prize for now. Claim it when the seas are in our favour!”

“And lose the element of surprise?” Vane scoffs. “I think you’re tryin’ t’ play me, Kenway. What’s t’ say you won’t take the brig yourself, after I’ve left you to it?”

“On my honour as a pirate, Vane,” Edward calls to him. “Let’s stay this madness until another day!”

You don’t like the considering look in Vane’s eyes as they rove over you. You don’t like the smarmy smirk that lifts the corners of his lips. You don’t like the hand that rests on the hilt of the sword hanging at his waist.

“Alright, Kenway,” he says, and you reach out to grasp the wood of the bannister before you, feeling nervous for some reason. “We’ll stay this madness.” His words are mocking, a jibe aimed at Edward while his eyes linger on you standing at your Captain’s side. “But say I’d like some insurance to buy your honesty.”

“Bloody Vane,” Edward mutters under his breath, barely audible over the wind that’s picked up to a howl. His voice rises to a shout once more. “What’ll you have, Vane?”

* * *

Vane’s cabin is messier than Edward’s, more cluttered, and you have to shift rolls of maps from the bed just to take a seat.

“ _Only for a couple of weeks_ ,” Edward had told you, while his eyes turned bitterly towards Vane on the Ranger. “ _I promise he’ll have you no longer than that._ ”

Two weeks is far too long with this man, you think, two weeks is far too long on this mess of a ship.

Already you miss the Jackdaw, miss her crew and her Captain, her tidiness and safety. Vane is cruel and hard, a man that stands tall and sneers down at you and if this wasn’t a favour owed to your Captain, you wouldn’t be here.

“ _You can’t, Kenway_ ,” Adé had objected, “ _that man is capable of nothing but destruction_!”

He’d been trying to save you but his words had done nothing but discomfort you.

“ _I’ve no other choice, Adé_ ,” Edward had snapped but by then you had made your choice.

“ _If you don’t come and get me after two weeks_ ,” you’d warned, “ _I’ll kill you myself, Captain_.”

The ship lurches violently as the storm outside reaches its peak. You grip the rickety bed in both hands to steady yourself and squint at the door as it swings open, battering harshly against the wall before Vane seizes it. He slams it shut and shakes his hands through his wet hair, ruffling it and spraying water everywhere, before shedding his coat.

He catches sight of you sitting on the bed. His lips quirk lecherously.

“Wearin’ much too many clothes for my likin’,” he says and you scoff, rolling your eyes.

“You’ll keep your hands to yourself,” you warn, “or I’ll cut them off.”

“It’s not my hands you need to be worryin’ about.”

“Keep it in your breeches or you’ll lose it too.”

“Careful,” warns Captain Vane. “You’re talking to your Captain.”

“No,” you correct boldly, and you feel bolder than whenever you’ve corrected Edward. “I’m talking to _a_ Captain. _My_ Captain is Edward Kenway of the Jackdaw.”

“Well I hate t’ break it t’ you,” snarls Vane, prowling closer to you, “but you’re not on the Jackdaw anymore. You’re on the Ranger and here you’ll abide by my rules.”

“Or what?”

The challenge isn’t nearly as confident as you’d like because Vane is invading your personal space. He leans down, forcing you backward onto the bed until his hands rest on the rough and lumpy mattress on either side of you.

“Or you’ll face consequences,” he murmurs lowly. “A night with the crew would see that boldness from you fast.”

“Are you willing to risk your partnership with Edward?” Your voice is a whisper and you’re terrified like a kitten.

Vane’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline. “Edward, is it? I thought he was _Captain Kenway_.”

You grit your teeth and, consequences be damned, you snap, “Unlike some captains, Captain Kenway actually forms a strong bond with his crew.”

“Some more than others,” returns Vane quickly, lewdly, and you’re acting before you can think it through.

The smack of your palm meeting his cheek is near deafening in the small and secluded space of his cabin and the silence that follows is worse. You’re breathing heavily, your chest heaving, and Vane’s yet to turn his head back to you, still staring to the left. You can see the muscles ticking in his jaw, can see the rage plain on his face.

Finally, he says, “I can see why Kenway likes you,” and you’re not sure if you should be offended or flattered.

* * *

You perform your duties on the Ranger the same as you would on the Jackdaw, and the first few days pass fast.

You hold your head high against rude comments and stares from the crew, keeping your head down and determined to perform your duty to your Captain. Edward promised you two weeks and no more; two weeks and the Ranger and the Jackdaw will take their prize and you’ll be _home_ , on the Jackdaw with her Captain and Quartermaster and where you belong.

Near the end of your first week, the Ranger and her crew take a prize; a Spanish merchant ship carrying rum and sugar. She puts up very little fight and you keep to the deck of the Ranger as Vane and his crew board their prize, watching warily.

You notice immediately the quivering bodies of the crew, the fear on their faces as they kneel with their hands on their heads. Vane’s name carries fear with it, carries danger and reputation, and you can only watch as gazes are diverted when he steps aboard.

He wields a pistol like a cane, waves it about him as he gestures, as he talks in a language foreign to the crew of their prize. He’s so different from Edward, so dangerous as he stalks before the kneeling crew. He’s unpredictable and frightening where Edward is intimidating and firm and somehow you’re wandering closer, leaning against the side of the ship and unable to pull your eyes away.

It’s a disaster waiting to happen, you reflect, the danger of it all, and you can’t look away until someone sidles close to you.

“Hello,” crows Jack Rackham and your lip curls in distaste. Of all the crew on the Ranger, you think you might dislike him the most.

“Afternoon,” you return calmly, politely, and in all the ways this horrible man does not deserve.

“Oi, oi,” he slurs at you, and you wish he wouldn’t come any closer; the stench of rum on his clothes is already overpowering enough. “No need to be like that.”

“I’ve no idea what you mean, Mr Rackham.”

You turn your eyes to the horizon but gunshot and yells and screams draw your eyes back to the Spanish crew, the Charles Vane standing over the merchant captain and grinning cruelly. He’s shot the merchant captain’s knee and shoulder, for what reason you don’t know, but it only reaffirms your thoughts; he’s unpredictable and terrifying.

 _A week to go_ , you tell yourself, and try as you might you can’t take your eyes off the writhing man on the deck of the ship. _A week and I’ll be home_.

“Y’see?” slurs Jack Rackham at your side. “Any deal with Charlie boy has its risks and you, _well_ …”

Slowly, you turn your eyes to him, uncaring of the anxiety and fear plain on your face. Jack Rackham shrugs, unconcerned, and lifts his pipe to his lips.

“I reckon it’s unlikely he’ll hand you back over before killing you.”

No, you don’t just _dislike_ Jack Rackham.

You _hate_ Jack Rackham.

* * *

Charles Vane still hasn’t told you the reason he’d taken you as insurance and you’ve only got three days left on the Ranger.

He lounges in the chair at his desk while you lay on your back on the bed, staring at the ceiling and clenching and unclenching your fists. He’s smoking a pipe and scribbling away in his logs, an action that’s so familiar and responsible that it surprises you.

“Good haul today?” you ask to fill the silence and your answer is an aggravated hum and _more_ silence. You bite back an irritated groan and instead turn your head to watch him. He doesn’t appear to feel your stare at all.

“What?” he growls suddenly and dark eyes meet yours, full of heat and rage. You wonder if he ever gets tired of being so angry, of being so furious with the world that he needs to be cruel towards it.

You voice none of these thoughts, and instead lift your chin.

“Why did you take me?” you demand and you sit up on the bed, resting on your elbows while you keep your eyes fixed on the captain lounging at his desk.

“I haven’t yet,” muses Captain Vane, “but if you’re askin’ me to, I won’t say no.”

Many of your conversations have taken turns like this, turns for the dirty and vulgar, and while ordinarily you would scoff and roll your eyes and roll over to sleep, this time you know your time is running out. You have three days and no answer, and Jack Rackham’s words linger in the back of your mind, haunting you like a poltergeist and taunting you constantly. You don’t want to believe that Vane will kill you in three days. You don’t want to imagine the look on Edward’s face when he hears the news.

“You’re incorrigible,” you say distastefully and then, as Vane sets the books on the desk and sits up in his chair, “Edward will come for me in three days and I still don’t have an answer as to why you’re using me.”

“People are the best insurance,” Vane muses. “Nothing strikes fear into another Captain than the idea that one of his more trusted crewmembers might be slaughtered at any second.”

Jack Rackham’s words spring to mind again; _it’s unlikely that he’ll hand you back over before killing you_.

You don’t want to believe it.

“I thought you and Edward were friends,” you say instead and you hope he doesn’t hear the quiver in your voice.

“Aye,” replies Vane. His chair scrapes along the floor as he gets to his feet, towering over you once more, in the same manner he had that first night. “But even trust between friends only goes so far.”

“You’re not helping matters,” you challenge, and really you ought to know better by now. Haven’t you learned anything in your time with this spontaneous Captain? “How can you expect him to trust you if you don’t return the favour?”

He leans forward, so familiar to the position he’d held the first night, his hands on either side of you and his face inches from yours. You can smell the rum on his breath, sees the cracks in his teeth and the stains against the fading yellow ascot.

“Would you trust me?” he breathes against your mouth, leaning further in and never tearing his gaze from your eyes.

He slides gracefully onto the bed, his body aligning with yours, and your breath catches in your throat; this isn’t what you’d expected, not even close. You’d expected shouting and yelling, a challenge for a challenge, but instead you’re getting lost in the deep brown of his eyes and feeling your stomach churning with butterflies.

His hand skirts along your waist towards the hem of your shirt and you tense as his hand slides under the fabric, rough and calloused fingers ghosting along the skin. The fabric suddenly feels far too thin and it’s far too hot in the cabin and still you can’t tear your eyes away from his.

 _Would you trust him_?

You open your mouth, an answer on the tip of your tongue, but you never get the chance.

There are three succinct knocks at the door and a hand tries the handle. You exhale shakily when it doesn’t budge, glad that Vane had the foresight to lock the door –

 _Wait_ , you realise, and you’re pushing at his chest as the spell is broken, furious and embarrassed and wanting nothing more than to get him off you. _The bastard planned this_!

“Captain,” the voice says urgently. “We’ve spotted another ship.”

“So?” Vane snaps back and he grabs your hands where they continue to shove insistently, freezing them in place while he waits for more information.

“They’re flying the black,” continues the voice. “Comin’ right for us.”

“Who is it?” He presses a kiss to your pulse point as his thumbs rub your wrists, easing your nerves and anger, and for a moment you almost let him.

“ _Get off_ ,” you hiss. He nips the skin at your jaw.

Whatever he’s about to say is cut off by the voice at the door, interrupting him and reminding you of the very reason you cannot possibly let this go any further.

“The Jackdaw.”


	6. Charms [Anne Bonny]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You have yer own charm, y’know,” Mary tells you sincerely. “Jack’s not the only one capable of winning the affections of a beautiful woman.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Female Reader! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

“Ye could just talk to her.”

Startled, you pull your eyes away from Anne – she’s replaced the flowers in her hair today, they’re brighter, bigger, and you want to say they’re the reason you’ve been staring at her so much today, but _that_ would be a lie – and you turn your eyes to Mary beside you.

She’s adjusting her red bandana and settling into her Kidd disguise. You’re reminded of when you found out she was actually a woman – purely accidental, you try to convince yourself, but then she’d told you afterwards that she was going to tell you anyway. You’re not quite sure you believe that; she might have said it just to make you feel better, after all, because it’s not every day you walk in on another woman changing.

You might be _interested_ in woman but even you know when it’s inappropriate.

“I can’t do that,” you mutter, adjusting your skirts as your eyes slide nervously to where Anne is serving a rowdy group of pirates.

“Come on, lass,” Mary says, and you flush at the shit-eating grin she’s wearing. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

“She might _hear_ me,” you hiss, starting to reach for the tray you’d abandoned beside you. Mary had come in during a quiet period and now it’s picking up. As much as you’d like to stay here and discuss how nervous Anne Bonny makes you, there’s work to be done.

Taking a deep breath, you ask, “Can I get you anything?”

Mary’s lips quirk. “Aye,” she muses, “some courage for my friend.”

“ _HA_ ,” you say, louder than you intend, and heads swivel towards the two of you. You duck your head, embarrassed, and make your way to the bar.

Anne meets you there, grinning and out of breath, and refilling the mugs on her tray.

To make conversation and to show Mary that you’re not a _total_ dweeb, you ask, “Did you find those eggs you were looking for?”

Anne shakes her head. “It’s ridiculous,” she mutters. “How these quisby’s get anything done is a mystery.”

You cast your eyes around the Old Avery, over the lounging pirates growing more and more drunk by the second, and you breathe a laugh.

“They don’t,” you say, and her returning smile sets your heart aflutter. “How many of the same people do you see in here every day?”

“That’s true,” returns Anne genially. As if on cue, Captain Vane strides into the tavern, with Jack on his heels. You roll your eyes as Anne says, “Speaking of the same people…”

You chuckle quietly, hoping to avoid drawing the attention of some of the rowdiest of your customers, but you hate the way Jack’s eyes roam over Anne as she approaches. You’re distracted only by another pirate slapping your ass and staring at you lecherously.

You thank god for the patience you’ve managed to perfect over the years working here because you want nothing more than to punch the rude fucker in the face.

* * *

“Ye _need_ to talk t’ her,” Mary says one day, weeks later, as you’re glowering angrily at Jack Rackham. Sitting daintily on his lap is Anne and you hate that she’s falling for the drunken pirate’s charms.

“I don’t want to interrupt,” you tell Mary quietly, turning your back on the pirates when Captain Vane’s eyes roll towards you. You can feel them raking over your back, can feel them studying you lewdly, and you barely manage to contain the shiver that runs down your spine.

“You have yer own charm, y’know,” Mary tells you sincerely. “Jack’s not the only one capable of winning the affections of a beautiful woman.”

“It’s a little different, Mary,” you mutter.

“How?”

“He has a cock.”

The strange blade she wears on her wrist pops free and she smirks slyly at you. “I could change that, if ye like.” When you don’t say anything, she adds, “He wouldn’t be the first.”

“Who wouldn’t be the first?”

It’s Anne, looking irritated and in need of a cheer up, and you immediately turn to face her, concerned, while Mary’s eyes scan the pirates at the table.

“What happened?” you ask, searching the table over her shoulder.

“Oh, you know Jack,” Anne says by way of explanation and while you don’t want to dismiss it, you know that anything else you say will just cause an argument with her. You might not be happy that she’s chosen him over you but it’s not really a choice when she’s not even aware that you’re an option, is it?

“Tell ye what,” muses Mary, “what’s say we get outta here?”

* * *

She’s grabbed some rum and found a nice little spot on the beach and the three of you are watching the sun setting on the horizon while getting delightfully drunk.

Part of your sober mind suspects what Mary’s trying to do but you’re glum and in need of a pick me up and rum is the closest thing to hand.

Anne is ranting about Jack, waving the bottle of rum in her hand like a sword, and saying things like “why can’t all men be like you, James?” while you snort behind her and share amused glances with Mary.

“It would take one hell of a man to be anything like me,” Mary quips and you break into a fit of giggles, throwing yourself onto your back on the sand and staring at the sky overhead, at the streaks of pink and orange that are disappearing and giving way to navy and glittering stars.

Mary is laughing too and Anne is looking between the two of you in drunken confusion. You try to stop laughing for her sake, feeling sorry for her, but whenever you see the perplexed expression she wears, it only draws more giggles from your drink addled brain.

“Someday I’ll tell ye,” Mary says around chuckles and she’s starting to get to her feet. “You ladies enjoy yerselves. I’ve a bone to pick with Kenway.”

“God help him,” you shout in parting, and you’re grateful for the drink filling you with courage because otherwise you’re pretty sure you’d have left with her. Edward’s nice, after all, understanding, if somewhat a bit of a prick.

“Hear, hear,” Anne says, and you realise you’ve spoken your thoughts aloud.

The shore washes up around your bare feet and legs but neither of you move to stop it spreading, nor do either of you shriek and complain about the cold. You’re struck by the wish to go for a late night swim, to find a nice secluded spot and dive in. The tide coming in doesn’t feel like enough.

“We should head up the beach,” Anne says and you groan, loathe to move.

“Do we have to?”

“We’ll get soaked!”

Your eyes meet hers, a twinkle in them while a smirk plays on your lips.

“So?” you challenge, propping yourself up with your elbows. “Are you afraid of a little water?”

“No,” she returns, and while her voice is light, her words are heavy. “A lot can kill you.”

The water laps around your legs again, drawing up seaweed that tangles in your toes. You cock your head to the side, watching her closely while you take another drink, and the setting sun catches in the red of her hair, making it glow like hot metal.

She’s _stunning_.

You boldly reach for her hand, drawing her to her feet and towards the water, kicking it up with each step. When you dive in, she follows.


	7. Home [Edward Kenway]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“A blank page,” says Edward. “A clean slate.”_

It’s damp and dark and cold and you haven’t seen another human face for days now.

Your gown is ruined – and it’s _the_ gown, you reflect, and you can remember clearly how excited that used to make you, wearing _the_ gown to _the_ coronation and joining _the_ festivities. It’s ripped and torn; there are pieces lying in tatters around you and the lace that used to be so purely white is stained and dirty, washed with grey. One sleeve has been ripped at the seam of the shoulder, and the fabric of the bodice has been worn away, revealing your corset underneath, looser than you remember it being at the party before you were taken.

Or perhaps it’s still as tight, it’s just _you_ who has gotten thinner.

You _feel_ dirty, sitting pressed against the furthest corner of your small cell, knees tucked under your chin as you try to keep yourself warm. You’ve never felt so weak in your life, never felt so helpless, and it’s been months with no sign of the torment ending.

You don’t know what you’d expected, to be honest; a daring rescue, a fleet of ships to pursue your kidnappers?

It had hurt more than you expected when no one came for you, when no one had come to put an end to the misery you’re enduring. It had hurt to realise that a successor has probably already been named, that you’ve already been pronounced dead. Where is your people’s loyalty now when you need it most? Why have you been abandoned so easily?

You’ve cried all your tears. You feel like there’s nothing left in you anymore; no tears and no _hope_.

You’ve wasted all of that on a people and a kingdom that obviously doesn’t care as much about you as you do them.

The seas feel particularly rough today – _tonight_? You honestly can’t tell anymore, it’s been too long – and if you listen close enough you can hear shouting from above deck. They sound frantic, you reflect dismally, and you wonder if it’s something to do with you, if they’re coming close to whoever wanted you taken, if they’re worried about the exchange.

You won’t deny that you’ve been feeling some curiosity about your situation; who would want you kidnapped? What for? Why? The questions have been running rampant in your mind for some time, brought to the forefront when you lie on the cusp of sleep and awareness, pricking at your consciousness when you jolt from sleep.

You’re just drifting off to sleep once more when the ship gives a lurch and you hear the explosions before anything else, the whistling of the cannon balls soaring through the air before ripping through the ship as if it is nothing at all. Your stomach churns with nerves; you can hardly stomach the thought of dying here, trapped in this damp and dark cell, completely alone.

You’re on your feet in an instant, stumbling weakly to the cell door, grabbing the cold metal bars tightly as you struggle to hold yourself upright. You slide slowly to the dirty floor again almost as soon as your hands grasp the metal, your legs giving out, and you can hear the shouts above deck, the clanging of metal on metal and the gunshots.

You can hardly speak, your voice no more than a whisper, a croak that barely escapes your throat. No one will hear you down here, this is indisputable, and you’ve already wasted your hope trying. Your hands cling uselessly to the bars of your cell, while your eyes fix themselves to the door, and the light you can see through the gaps in its wood.

 _Please_ , you think, and you’re mouthing the word because there’s nothing else you can do. _Please_.

The sounds of the battle begin to die down and eventually they give way to cheers from unfamiliar voices and your eyes are still trained on that door, waiting for it to open, for someone to stand there and stare down those rickety old steps at you.

You can see it now: they’d stand there, silhouetted with the sun at their back and they’d see you there, huddled on the floor and tugging uselessly, weakly, at the metal bars that stand in the way of your freedom. How long has it been since you felt the sun on your face, felt the wind in your hair? You can hardly remember what it feels like, it’s been too long.

You drop your head onto your arm, leaning against the bars, your breathing shallow as you close your eyes. Your body feels heavy, weighted, and it’s getting more and more difficult to stay awake, to stay alert. That small burst of energy that drew you to your cell door as ebbed into fatigue and now you just want to sleep, to close your eyes and delve into blissful nothingness.

The footsteps from above deck are heavy and close, and five minutes ago you’d have been ready to hold your breath and watch the door, ready to _hope_. Now you’re hardly paying attention, even as you hear the footsteps drawing closer, even as you hear the captain – that damnable man who has taunted and tormented you and who you want nothing more than to forget about – shouting that they shouldn’t-

Light streams in, bright and blinding, and you turn your head away, squinting into your now lit cell and back towards the door, struggling to see anything at all, struggling to understand what’s happening. You hear voices, confused and loud, you hear footfalls as they descend the stairs and the jingle of keys in a hand.

Your door swings open and hands catch you before you can crumble onto the dirty floor. There’s a perplexed huff near your ear, a voice from the body towering over you, shouting up the stairs for someone, for a man whose title you can only associate with your cruel tormentor.

“Cap’n! You might wanna see this!”

The footsteps that come down the stairs next are lighter, softer, and you manage to force your eyes towards the stairs, towards the man that descends, prowling every bit like the predator his vast array of weapons make him out to be.

He crouches before you, where the man who holds you cradles you to his chest, and his scarred and calloused hands are gentle as they brush your dirty hair from your face, ghosting over cheeks covered in grime and tears.

“What in the…” his voice trails off but he’s said enough for you to hear the accent, lilting and musical, and he sounds as gentle as his touch.

You blink owlishly at him, tiredly, and you’re struck by his eyes, sea blue and weathered and nothing you expected at all. Hope you’ve long abandoned begins to flare in your chest and the sunlight from the open door highlights his golden hair and the scars on his tanned skin. He looks rough and dangerous and he’s the only hope you’ve had for a long time.

You watch the wheels turn, watch his expressions shift from one to another; confusion to curiosity and then, finally, he seems to come to a decision. He nods to the man behind you, the man who’s holding you, and you’re so captivated by this new man, the _Captain_ , that you can’t look away from him, not even as you’re being helped to your feet and you’re relying entirely on someone else just to stay upright.

There’s some unspoken order passed between the Captain and his men and you’re swept up in someone’s arms before you can get your bearings. You shield your eyes from the bright sun – it must be about noon, you think – as you slump in the strong arms of the man carrying you.

For months, you’ve ached to be outside, in the fresh air, in the salty wind but now that it’s happening, you can hardly keep your head up, can hardly appreciate it.

“Oi!” you hear, and it’s your captor, your tormentor, and the _Captain_ strides towards him, fury in each step and drawing one of the cutlasses that hangs at his side. “You can’t –“

“I don’t think you’re in any position to be demanding things from me,” warns the Captain, stopping before your captor, and he seems so different from the man below deck, who looked at you with such concern and care. Now, he’s the captain, and he’s in charge and you don’t think you want to be around when he decides what’s to be done about the ship you’ve spent the last few months on.

You’re carried onto another ship, sleeker, lighter, and there’s a tall and intimidating man at the helm, watching you curiously as you’re carried towards what you can only assume is the Captain’s Cabin. You hear him shouting for the ship’s doctor as he opens the door and you glance over your shoulder in time to hear the single gunshot from the Captain’s flintlock, in time to see the swatch of black cloth that flutters in the wind above you.

Your heart skips a beat; you feel like you’ve gone from the frying pan straight into the fire.

 _Pirates_.

* * *

The ship’s doctor is a kindly looking man with gentle hands, who prods at your flesh gently and who orders water and food brought to you as soon as he sees you.

He makes sure you clear your plate, makes sure you get some water in you, and he calls for a change of clothes when you’re done, professionally helping you from your dress and handing you the shirt and breeches that’s been delivered. They’re too big but they’re better than your torn and ruined dress, cleaner, at least, and smelling of gunpowder and rum.

“They’re the Captain’s,” says the doctor, as soon as you’re settled on the bed again. “I’m sure he won’t mind in the slightest.”

Well, you’re not so sure about _that_ but the doctor seems confident, so that’s good enough for you. He does a few more checks, referring to you by ‘lass’ and ‘girl’ and it hasn’t escaped your notice that there’s been no flared recognition, no use of the correct titles required by your status.

It’s… refreshing.

Your titles have been used mockingly by your captor since your kidnapping and have started to lose all real meaning for you. You think if someone starts to use them again, you might scream; you’d probably ask them to refer to you by your name now, if you’re honest with yourself, because those titles just don’t seem to fit you anymore.

Everything you’ve been through, everything you’ve suffered through… you feel completely abandoned by your people, those people you were going to _rule_ , those people who you cared about, who you still care about, and the idea of retaining the title you once revered is unbearable.

The door swings open and over the doctor’s shoulder you see the Captain himself striding in. He pauses beside the table near the door, the one covered in naval maps that you’d barely glanced at as you were carried in earlier, and surveys it quietly as he strips himself of his weapons and armour.

You’re tempted to feel offended; that he’s so comfortable unarmed in your presence pricks at your pride.

(He’s not wrong – what are you going to do, really? You’ve been a captive for months, you’re weak and hardly able to stand without help. He’s perfectly right to imagine that you’re not a threat because, let’s face it, you’re _not_.)

The doctor and the Captain exchange quiet words while you sit on the bed, swaddled in blankets and pondering your situation, and you say nothing as the doctor bids you farewell. The Captain doesn’t look up for a long while, setting each of his weapons down and shrugging out of his coat. He catches you watching him curiously and you flush as you turn your eyes away, focussing instead on the loose threads of the blanket around your shoulders.

“See something you like?” he quips amiably and you cast your eyes towards him once more, courageously, stupidly, to see he’s still looking at you, as intrigued by you as you are by him, you imagine.

Words have failed you and all you do to reply is shrug. You’re not used to people being so open with you, so sure of themselves and easy-going. You’re used to your presence inspiring nerves and etiquette, in pretences and lies because who can be truly honest when talking to a princess, when talking to a future queen?

Your whole life up till now has revolved around lies and deception, around people wearing masks when they talk to you, around people who would hide who they really are to protect themselves, to protect _you_. Someone so brash, so churlish, a _pirate_ , is completely new to you and you’re not quite sure how to react.

“Good Captain Holmes wasn’t forthcoming with information,” says the Captain, circling the desk to stand before you. He leans against it, a good few feet between you that provides some comfort. “So I’ll just have to rely upon you to tell me why you were aboard a slaver’s ship.”

Your breath hitches. In all your thoughts, in all the torment you’ve suffered these last few months, not once had you considered the kind of ship you were aboard. A _slaver’s ship_ provides you with a different perspective of your intended fate, and you can’t quite believe it – but you’re grateful to this pirate Captain for coming along when he did.

Who knows what might have happened otherwise?

(You have your suspicions but you don’t particularly want to address them.)

“I see,” says the Captain quietly and you’re grateful for his perception, grateful that he’s understood before the words have even left your mouth. He pushes himself into a standing position, watching you carefully. “Unless you decide otherwise,” he continues, “when we next reach civilisation, I’ll see you cared for and on a ship to wherever you need to go.”

 _That_ is surprising. The last thing you’d expected was for this captain to be the least bit _gentlemanly_. His words ring in your head – _unless you decide otherwise_. What does that mean, you wonder; does he honestly expect you to consider remaining on this ship, with his crew, with him? He might have rescued you but that doesn’t take away from the fact he’s a _pirate_ and you’ve spent your whole life being warned off pirates, being told stories of their misdeeds and their crimes.

You’re still clutching tightly to the blanket thrown over your shoulder, but you release it to hold your hand out to him – not in the way you’re used to, not looking for him to bend the knee and kiss the back of your hand – for a handshake.

You introduce yourself quietly, your voice still croaky from disuse, and you’re not sure how to feel about the relief that floods through you like a tidal wave when the Captain doesn’t recognise your name.

“Edward Kenway,” he tells you, “at your service.”

There’s nothing in his expression to hint that he knows your name, that he knows _you_ , and there’s nothing to make you suspicious of his honesty, not yet. He hasn’t let go of your hand yet and you can remember his touch from the hold of that ship, warm and scarred and calloused and gentle. He watches your face patiently and says nothing.

“Thank you, Captain Kenway,” you say eventually, softly, gratefully.

He inclines his head and releases your hand. You watch his back as he strides towards the desk once more, giving the maps there a once over as he settles in the large and uncomfortable-looking chair.

“Get some rest, lass,” says Edward Kenway softly, “I reckon you need it.”

And you _do_ , but you’re not sure how comfortable you are sleeping with a _pirate_ in the same room. You’ve not got much choice, you’re aware of that, and having the bed is better than sleeping in that cold cell where you’ve spent your last few months, but you’re used to so much different than this. You’re used to privacy, used to propriety, and this is so far from it it’s near dizzying.

“Don’t worry, lass,” says Captain Kenway, and it’s frightening how easily he can read your face. “Once I’ve finished up here, I’ll be back at the helm. I feel comforted when the Jackdaw’s under my command.”

“Jackdaw,” you echo softly. The name makes you think of home; there are jackdaws all over your land and they sing in the mornings and at the twilight of the day. And somehow, from what you’ve seen of the brig you’ve found yourself on, it seems to fit.

“Aye,” says Kenway. “She’s not much but she’s home.”

You’re not sure if it’s what he intended but you can hear the lingering words in the air, the proposal, the _unless you decide otherwise_. You’ve never lived on a ship before – this is perhaps the longest you’ve ever spent at sea – but you admit to yourself that the idea of sailing with a crew, sailing with people who treat you like their equal and not their _better_ (because you’ve never wanted to be, not _ever,_ but you can’t help your birth) is appealing.

Edward Kenway must see the wheels turning in your head, must see your thoughts reflected clearly on your face in that unnerving way of his. He doesn’t get up, doesn’t set down the map he’s studying, but his eyes land on you once more, concerned and alert and _blue_ , so _blue_.

“Jaysus,” he says. “I can hear you thinking from over here.”

Embarrassment is becoming a familiar feeling in this man’s presence but it’s better than fear and indifference, so you’ll take it. You start to settle into the bed – _his bed_ , you realise, because you’re in the Captain’s cabin and it has to be his – and he actually looks pleased to see you calming down, relaxing.

“Sleep, lass,” he says softly. “There’ll be plenty of time for thinking later.”

The words are strangely comforting and for the first time in a long time you feel _safe_ – and that’s completely crazy because you’re surrounded by _pirates_. But it’s a step up from _slavers_ , you suppose, and you’re really in no place to complain anyway. He didn’t have to help you, didn’t have to take you from that ship; your thoughts start to run rampant once more. What if he’s lying, you think deliriously, what if he won’t actually see you safely on your way home? What if you’ve gone from one bad situation into a worse one, like you thought as soon as you saw that black flag?

“Lass,” he says, and the word is comforting and out of place on this pirate’s tongue.

But as if he were your own captain, as if you were a part of this crew, you follow his orders and turn your back on him, burrowing into the blankets and savouring the warmth around you.

* * *

And you don’t leave, no matter how many opportunities he gives you (and there’s _a lot_ ) and for the life of you, you’re not sure _why_.

You’d woken up after a good rest – _fifteen hours_ , the doctor had told you when you’d roused to find him checking your temperature – and everything had seemed clear. You had to find a way _home_ , had to find a way to let your people know you were alive and well and on your way back.

But you’re still here, despite the countless letters you’ve written and scrapped, despite the nights you lie awake considering what you’ll write, wondering about home and what they’ve been told about you. Do they think you’re dead, still? Who sits on the throne, on _your_ throne?

Edward – and when that happened, you can’t recall; he’s become _Edward_ and not _Captain Kenway_ and it’s a welcome surprise that accompanies the fluttering of butterflies in your stomach whenever he meets your eyes. He watches you every night as you sit down to write, every night you rip the words apart after an hour or so of scribbling your well wishes and orders down, and he never says a word about it.

You’re alone tonight, sitting at the desk and studying the blank paper before you like you have done so often you’ve lost count, and the crew above deck are singing, loudly and boisterously, and what you wouldn’t give to join them. You’ve done so before – you have a few of their shanties under your belt, after all, and you’re quite proud of this fact – but you’ve told yourself to _write this damned letter_ and you’ll not leave until you’ve done so.

The door swings open and you hear his laughter before anything else, chuckling at some joke he must have been told before retiring for the night. The candle on the desk has been burning for a good while now and the page before you is still frustratingly blank.

“Any luck, lass?” asks Edward curiously, innocently, and you shake your head.

“I can’t get the words,” you say irately. “Every time I try it just doesn’t sound right.”

“Perhaps I can help,” he starts and fear clutches at your heart, grasps it tightly in an iron grasp. “I know a thing or two about writing difficult letters.”

He still doesn’t know about you and you’d like to keep it that way. After all, at the root of his being, Edward Kenway is still a _pirate_ and you’ve witnessed first-hand the lengths he’s willing to go to for some _coin_. You’ve no doubt you’d be just another prize to him if you were truly honest.

“Thank you, Captain,” you say diplomatically and then, a touch sadly, “but I doubt if they even know I’m still alive.”

“So formal,” he quips. “How long has it been since you called me ‘Captain’, eh?”

Your cheeks flush – it’s habit, you think, to fall back on manners and propriety when thrown into situations that panic you.

“I’d say you’ve been given a rare opportunity here, lass,” he says after a pause. “I reckon there’s not a man on this earth who wouldn’t love to be given what you have.”

You pause thoughtfully and then turn to face him, your curiosity clearly mirrored on your face. “And what’s that?” you ask, truly intrigued.

“A blank page,” says Edward. “A clean slate.”

You haven’t thought of it that way. You’ve been so preoccupied with ensuring that you get the damn words onto the page and with telling _someone_ that you’re alive that you haven’t even considered if you _should_. Your life has been all about what’s proper and _good_ up till now, everything for the good of the kingdom.

It’s so heavily engrained in your very being that you haven’t even considered what it might be like without it.

“Is that your suggestion, Captain Kenway?” you tease lightly. “To start over?”

“Well,” muses Edward. “I can’t say I wouldn’t be tempted, if it were I in your position.”

You know he’s curious about your previous circumstances, about what led you to be kidnapped in the first place, and for a _pirate_ , you think bemusedly, he’s been awfully respectful of your privacy. You can see the question on his lips, the curiosity flitting across his features.

 _A clean slate_ , you muse to yourself and your eyes are drawn once more to the blank page sitting innocently on the desk. _A fresh start_.

“And, well,” he pauses and you think he’s gathering some of the courage you’ve seen him wear countless times, seen him grab and wield with little trouble as he confidently takes another brig. “I’ve grown quite accustomed to seeing you in my cabin, in all truth, lass.”

And you’ve grown quite accustomed to being here, you’ll admit to yourself but to no one else. You’re not sure if you can imagine a life with Edward anymore, not after how much you’ve seen of each other recently, and, if you’re honest with yourself, you’re not sure you want to.

“In any case,” says Edward, and you’re perplexed and amused by his hasty retreat from his cabin, no doubt returning to the helm despite his decision to retire not fifteen minutes ago. “The Jackdaw is as much as home to you now as it is to the rest of her crew.”

Your smile is small and grateful as he adds, “And it would be a great loss if you were to leave her.”

“Thank you, Edward,” you say to his back, as he hastily removes himself from his cabin – you can’t help but feel like he’s hiding something.

You’ve plenty to think about, in any case. Return home, to propriety and dullness, to a people who rely on you and love you, or remain here, with a crew who have _accepted_ you and love you and a life of excitement and rogues and stolen wealth?

The blank page on the desk mocks you, the quill laid innocently on the wooden surface by its side. If you were to lift it, what would you write? Or should you lift it at all?


	8. Lost [Mary Read/James Kidd]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There’s a beat of silence, broken by your soft sigh of anguish._
> 
>  
> 
> _“I’m not the same,” you admit in a murmur, blinking away tears and following a gull that soars next to the ship. “What if he…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> requested from loxuriius through the blog!

“Nassau.”

Edward looks over at you, distracted from his conversation with his quartermaster by your arrival. He gestures with a silent nod to the large and intimidating man at his side to the take the helm and crosses the deck quickly to stand with you. His hands are gentle on your arm and back as he tries to guide you away, an uncharacteristically serious frown gracing his face.

“You should be resting,” he scolds lightly.

He’s been like this since he found you, shivering that cell and terrified out of your mind, wearing clothes that used to fit but had become three sizes too small. He’d said your name and almost ripped the door from its hinges trying to get it open, sweeping you into his embrace with no words other than, “ _Jaysus_ , we thought we lost you.”

You’d teased him about his fearsome reputation being at stake. “What will people say?” you’d said, grinning when he pulled back with a frown. “The Devil of the Caribbean on his knees before a woman.”

He’d cocked his head to the side and grinned impishly, always the one to get the last word. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You root yourself to the spot, refusing to move, refusing to look away from the island the Jackdaw fast approaches. “It’s Nassau, isn’t it?”

“Aye, lass,” he sighs. “Will you come inside now that I’ve satisfied you?”

“No,” you return stubbornly. “I asked you to keep me away from here until I’m better.”

“And when will that be?” You turn your eyes away from Nassau briefly to fix with an annoyed and betrayed glare. It doesn’t bother him in the slightest. “I found you four months ago, lass, you can’t hide from him forever.”

 _Him_. Ah, the ever present and lingering _him_.

“I’m not hiding,” you return, but the angling away of your face tells Edward all he needs to know.

Even still, his smile is soft, his words softer still. “’Course you’re not.”

There’s a beat of silence, broken by your soft sigh of anguish.

“I’m not the same,” you admit in a murmur, blinking away tears and following a gull that soars next to the ship. “What if he…”

Any answer Edward might have, any words of comfort, are cut off by Adéwalé loudly announcing that there’s ship approaching, leaving Nassau’s harbour and coming straight for them. Edward accepts the spyglass handed to him gladly, lifting it to his eye and his lips turned down in a frown. It’s a large ship, you can clearly see from where you stand, and one you don’t recognise. How many new pirates have arrived to Nassau in the time since you… _left_?

“ _The Queen Anne’s Revenge_ ,” muses Edward softly. “I’ll be damned. What kinda luck you’re havin’ just lately.”

Your brows pull together in a frown. “What do you mean?” You don’t know the ship’s name, don’t have any reason to know it.

“First, I just happen to dock the Jackdaw on that particular island.” Edward hands off his spyglass to Adé. “And now, Blackbeard himself just happens to be leaving Nassau as we’re arriving.”

“ _Blackbeard_?” Now _that_ ’s a name you recognise. Even cooped up in that cell and half-starved, you’ve heard the stories.

“Don’t fret, lass,” Edward says, clapping you on the shoulder. There’s little force behind the action, none of what you’re used to. “He’ll be mighty glad to see you, I reckon.”

“ _What_?”

Edward doesn’t answer your question, merely laughs like it’s all some big joke that you’re not in on, and with a half hour the Jackdaw has drawn up alongside the large and beautiful _Queen Anne’s Revenge_. You can hardly look away from the multitude of guns the ship sports like jewellery, glittering gold in the sunlight while her crew idle near them, ready at a moment’s notice to unleash hell upon their enemies.

“Captain Kenway!” hollers a voice you recognise and your mouth drops open. “Where the devil ‘ave ye been, lad?”

Edward nudges you in the side, grinning. “Found myself a treasure, Thatch,” he shouts back, “one I’m sure Kidd’ll be glad to have back!”

You see Thatch clearly now, as hulking and large as you remember, wearing black leathers and sporting a long and bushy black beard. It startles a laugh from you when he leans forward and peers at you, the gentle eyes you remember from countless nights joking in the tavern with him hidden under thick brows and a black tricorn hat with a long red feather protruding from the back.

“Devil be damned,” you hear him say. He barks a laugh. “Good to see ye, lass!”

You wave, more shyly than you’ve ever been around him. “Captain,” you call, nodding your head.

“He’s still the same,” Edward murmurs encouragingly.

Thatch guffaws. “’ _Captain_ ,’” he repeats. “’ _Captain_!’”

“Well,” you brave saying, taking Edward’s words to heart. “I suppose I didn’t recognise you with the…” you pause, using your hands to mime his beard, “… _beard_.”

He barks a loud laugh. “You sound just like Vane!”

“It’s truly _magnificent_!”

“Kidd,” Thatch barks suddenly, looking at someone over his shoulder. “ _Kidd_! D’ye hear this? ‘ _Magnificent_.’ And ye thought it looked ridiculous!”

Any comfort you’ve found quickly disappears. You’re vaguely aware of yourself whimpering Edward’s name, whispering, “No, no, I’m not ready, he _can’t_ see me like this!” Edward doesn’t let you hide away, takes you in a firm and grounding grip when you try to slip away to his cabin.

“Let him make that decision,” he tells you. “You can’t hide from him forever.”

 _Not hiding_ is the retort on your lips as you try to pull yourself away from him. _Not hiding_. You’re just so different from the last time Kidd saw you, thinner and more fragile, more broken than ever. You were in love with him a long time ago, in love with _her_ , ready to sail the seas with her until your last breaths. You think she loved you too, or was beginning to at least… how can you be sure she still feels that way, after all this time apart?

“Ahoy, Kidd!” Edward shouts over the small gap between ships. “Think I’ve found something for yours, mate!”

For the longest time you hear nothing but the masts creaking and the gulls crying, the sails whipping in the wind overhead. You risk glancing over, finding him standing at Thatch’s side, a frown on his face as he peers at you. He’s exactly like you remember, dark eyes surrounded by darker kohl, that red bandana over his forehead and dark hair, wearing clothes a size too big that seem to fit him anyway.

You see him mouth your name, only your name, and then he says something Thatch, the words lost over the wind that is suddenly howling around you. Thatch grins, slaps Kidd on the shoulder, and you watch in fascination as Kidd reaches for the rigging, effortlessly tugging on the line until he’s swinging over the gap.

He lands on the deck of the Jackdaw with little trouble, pushing his way through the men and taking the steps two at a time until he’s in front of you, tugging you towards him and into the warmest hug you’ve had since Edward found you in that cell. It’s the kind of hug that has you clutching to his coat, clenching it in your fist to ground yourself with. It’s the kind of hug he’s always given but that you’ve forgotten in your separation.

And then he’s not Kidd anymore but _Mary_ , pressing kisses to every inch of skin she can reach; she kisses your forehead and your cheeks, your jaw and your nose, your chin. You snap out of your daze when her lips press against yours, a shy and demure kiss that you wonder if she regrets before you react, wrapping your arms around her neck and tugging her closer.

“Never lettin’ ye outta my sight again,” she tells you, holding you close, her face in your neck. “Never again.”

You’ll hold her to that.


	9. Trouble [Edward Kenway]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Suppose I got what I wanted, eh?” he asks aloud, chuckling. At your frown, he adds, “You Assassins live exciting lives.”  
>  You want to laugh with him, you do, but what you say instead is, “And it usually leads us to an early grave.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another of my favourites! features fem!Reader masquerading as a man and the inevitable fall out of the discovery. Heavy whump on Reader, btw, so proceed with caution!

“I don’t _know_!”

The words are said around pained whimpers and pitiful sobs, a confession wrenched from your lips by insistent brutes with too much time on their hands. Another fist collides with your gut and you double over, gasping for breath; hands on your arms and shoulders steady you, keeping you upright and stable, holding you still for the next hit.

“I don’t… _know_ …”

You’re telling them the truth but you could be telling them something as easy as the sky is blue and they’d still believe it to be a lie.

“Where is _it_?” he demands again, his lips twisted in a malicious frown. Somewhere in the cove, a loose rock tumbles down the stone walls, echoing in the enclosed space. His hand clenches in your hair, forcing your head up; you spit in his face, one last piece of defiance for an end you know must be coming soon.

Your captor and tormentor wipes the clot of blood and saliva from his cheek with a furious snarl. Your head snaps to the side as he backhands you; slumping forward in the hands of his henchmen, you try to focus on your breathing. Every inhale is shaky and painful, each breath you breathe is regretted afterwards simply for the pain it causes you.

“It really is a shame your Captain outlived his usefulness,” muses the Templar. Your heart clenches in agony; how you wish you had the strength to wrench yourself free and make him _pay_ for this. “I imagine you’d be eager to speak if he were here.”

He pauses and sighs, reaching into his breast pocket for a handkerchief to wipe his knuckles with.

“No matter,” he says. “You’ll break eventually. You assassins _always_ do.” He leans forward, a finger under your chin to tilt your face up. “Now, my dear, _where is it_?”

You take a heaving breath and glare up at him, channelling all your hate and pain into your stare. “Piss… _off_.”

* * *

_“I’m lucky you’re here, lad,” he tells you around a smile, slapping a hand on your shoulder._

_You shrug, ever humble. “You’d have managed just find without me Captain, don’t sell yourself short.”_

_“I know,” returns Edward. He rises to stand, holds out a hand to help you to your feet. You take it gratefully and ignore the fluttering of butterflies in your stomach at his touch. “Suppose it’s just easier havin’ someone here who’s as good as I.”_

_Your eyes trail over his forearms, over the leather bracers that shield his hidden blades from sight. You’re impressed with his skill with them, impressed at his ability to figure out the mechanism on his own._

_He turns his back and you eye your own hidden blades – how long had it taken you to master this skill? You remember you’d been so bitter towards him, for so long; how could you ever come to show admiration for this man who’d murdered your own? For this man who shared no thought to anyone who didn’t agree with his goals and ambitions?_

_Yet here you are, trailing after him like a dutiful soldier when a year ago you’d wanted nothing more than to drive a blade through his heart._

_He rounds the corner ahead of you and you surreptitiously adjust your shirt and the bindings underneath_ , just in case.

* * *

He’s losing patience with you.

They’ve bound your wrists behind you and to a wooden support beam – to keep you up, he’d told you with a laugh, because you’re so bruised and beaten and _tired_ that you want nothing more than to _sleep_. You’re given no such luxury; they force water into you and check on your periodically, keeping you alert and _alive_.

 _It doesn’t matter_ , you think, _can’t you see that_? _You’ll never find what you’re looking for_.

* * *

_He’s an arm around your shoulders and a bottle of rum in his hands, a song on his lips and a voice lost in the noise of the crew. His breath is laced with the sweet drink, his cheeks flushed with it, and more than once you’ve used his grip around you just to keep him upright._

_The crew have been going since noon. Edward, you think, might have been going_ before _that._

_They’re celebrating a prize taken with Vane and Rackham, their pockets spilling with gold that’s spent on rum and women. Assassin business had stolen you away from the Jackdaw for the week, away from Edward and the crew that had become your family._

_“’ave a drink,” Edward slurs at your side, his breath hot against your ear. You accept the bottle he thrusts in your hands just to stop an argument. He presses you until you drink, shaking you lightly with a strong arm while his eyes stray across the raucous gathering._

_He whistles and a smirk makes its way across his lips. You swallow when you follow his gaze;_ dancers _. Your heart sinks as he untangles himself from you, pushing himself to his feet and staggering away from you._

 _Having a drink (or_ five _) suddenly seems like a fantastic idea._

* * *

The Templar walks in an hour later, brandishing familiar weapons before your eyes. Your strength returns enough for you to surge forward, snarling like a wild animal. The battered and worn leather is out of place in this bastard’s hands, saved for a more deserving man who can’t use them anymore.

“Where is it?” he asks again. He sets the bracers in front of you, just out of reach, enough to tempt.

“I don’t know.”

He tuts in disappointment, shaking his head as he rises from his crouch. He breezes through the tent flaps nonchalantly, whistling a merry tune as his boots click against the stone.

Just looking at Edward’s bracers makes your heart clench and your eyes blur with tears. This suffering is almost too much to bear.

 _I don’t know_. _I don’t know_.

* * *

_Assassin business calls you from his side again. Assassin business almost takes you from his side._

_The sight of you in the Templar stronghold gives him pause; questions are on his lips, fury and betrayal in his eyes, but when you tell him to duck he doesn’t hesitate._

_“I wanted to tell you,” you say honestly._

_“Don’t –“ He stops, inhaling the stale Nassau air deeply. “Just don’t.”_

_You nod, doing as he wishes, and when you use your hidden blades to easily dispatch an enemy that would have taken his head, he gives you a look you can’t decipher. His eyes are dark as they flicker towards the bracers on your arms; you wonder if he’s just seeing them now, if he’s suspected at all in the past._

_You wonder if he realises now how obvious they are._

_Any attempts at explaining are met with barbed threats; he’s hostile when you reach for him at the end of your mission, jerking his arm away from your hand and appearing, you think with alarm, to reach for one of the flintlocks at his chest. He stops the action once it’s barely begun but you think the damage has been done._

_You’ve ruined everything._

* * *

He taunts you with fantasies about the body, laden down with water and sinking into the deep. He tells you the death your Captain got was better than he deserved. He tells you he wishes he’d kept the man alive just to receive the bounty on his head.

You tell him there’s a circle of Hell reserved just for him, and you’re going to send him there.

* * *

_“Answer me honestly,” he starts one night, throwing himself onto the sand beside you but keeping his eyes on the dancing flames of the bonfire. “Would you have told me?”_

_You breathe deeply, inhaling the smell of burning wood, the smoke from the bonfire. “If I had to,” you tell him honestly_. Not unless I had to _._

_He nods. He lifts the bottle of rum to his lips and takes a long drink. He sighs as he lowers the bottle again, holding it out to you wordlessly._

_Your fingers brush as you take it from him warily, watching his face for any sign that he’s going to end your life._

_“Suppose you must’ve gotten a right laugh at my expense,” he says thoughtfully, accepting the bottle when you pass it back._

_“How so?”_

_“Well, it’s damn obvious, ain’t it?” His eyes flicker towards the bracers on your arms; he lifts his hand, clenches it into a fist. His hidden blade pops free with a snick. You see his demonstration for what it is: an angry revelation that the blades the two of you share are not quite as hidden as people might believe, not if you know where to look._

_Not if you’re looking anyway._

_“Not at all,” you murmur. Louder, and as you accept the bottle from him once more, you add, “If you’re not looking for it…” You finish with a lame shrug._

_He finally looks at you and you can’t decipher the look in his eyes; they’re cold, like ice you’d say, but they steadily warm as a small smile crosses his face. He turns his eyes back to the bonfire and to his crew dancing and drinking and laughing around it._

_He shrugs and takes another drink. “As long as you’re not here to spy on me, I suppose we come to some sort of arrangement.”_

* * *

“Where is it?”

“Up your arse.”

* * *

_Things return to normal, you think. The crew of the Jackdaw welcome you back with very little questions and your life falls back into routine. When Assassin business calls you away from Edward’s side, he lets you go, always with an offhand quip and an order that you come back._

_When you slink back to the ship days later, sore and bruised and, at worst, bleeding from a wound sustained by a lucky strike, he doesn’t ask, though you can see the burning questions._

_Four months later, when Assassin business calls you away again, there’s no offhand remark, no orders to come home._

_Just a, “Where are we going then?” and an expectant look._

* * *

“Where is it?” A pause. He sneers down at you, at the blood staining your clothes and the way your chest heaves with every wheezing breath. “Tell me, my dear, and all of this will end.”

You lift your head. The wad of blood and saliva you spit at him lands metres away from his boot.

His next punch throws you into darkness, sweet and lonely and welcomed.

* * *

_“Of all the missions you decide to join me on,” you mutter, leading the way through the thick bushes towards the open window, “it had to be this one.”_

_Edward sighs, and helps you clamber through the window. “I thought you Assassins lived exciting lives, eh?” You reach for his hand but he waves you off, sliding elegantly through the window and joining you inside._

_“We do,” you tell him. You make your way to the desk, scanning through papers, rummaging through the drawers. “Make yourself useful, won’t you? Check the books for any hidden papers?”_

_“Aye,” he says. “Though don’t get used to ordering me around, eh? I’m still the Captain here.”_

_You lift your gaze away from the letters and logbooks in front of you to smirk at his turned back. You tease, “Yes,_ sir _,” and are still looking at him when he glances at you over his shoulder._

_“Watch it,” he warns light-heartedly._

_You chuckle lightly but it dies in your throat as you read quickly, grasping the length of parchment in your hand so tightly it starts to tear._

_“Oh, god.”_

_Edward says your name and crosses the room to be at your side in an instant. You hear heavy boot-falls approaching the room, coming fast. You pocket the letter and grasp Edward’s arm, dragging him with you._

_“We need to go. Now.”_

* * *

“Tell me,” he asks softly, crouching in front of you. His touch is deceptively gentle, brushing your dirty hair from your eyes. “How many secrets were you keeping from your Captain?”

“ _Piss off_.”

His finger hooks in the loose neck of your stained shirt, pulling it away from your flesh. His smirk is lecherous as he stares down your shirt, dropping the fabric so the split neck falls more daringly, more revealingly, than before.

“What a secret to learn before he died, hm?”

* * *

_“My father came close to finding it,” you tell Edward, watching him closely as he reads and re-reads the stolen letter. “Closer than anyone else.”_

_“And now the Templars are trying to use his research to locate it.”_

_You nod once. “I have to stop them.”_

_“You’re not doing this alone,” Edward tells you firmly. “We started this together, lad, I’m not lettin’ you walk into a firefight without a friend at your back.”_

_Your fingers brush again as he hands the parchment back to you, the elegant and swirling black letters that would inevitably spell your doom. You don’t know that now though, now there’s only Edward and you, only the dim light of his cabin and worry hanging over your head._

_Now there’s only the two of you, only his breath on your lips as he draws closer, only your soft breaths as your heart pounds at his closeness._

_And then there’s no space at all, just his lips on yours, his desperate hands reaching for your waist and tugging at your shirt. There’s just your hands winding in his hair, pulling him closer, reaching for the many belt buckles as his hands slide up your back, inching closer and closer –_

_There’s just your gasping breaths as you wrench yourself away from him, shaking your head and holding your last secret close to your chest_ – literally.

_There’s confusion in his eyes, perplexed lust as he stares at you, backing away from him and trying to open the door without looking away from him._

* * *

“She’s not going to talk,” you hear muttered outside your tent.

“Then she’s outlived her usefulness.”

* * *

_You go alone, ashamed to face him after the events of the night before, and more than willing to die if it stops him from becoming embroiled in a Templar plot. You’re more than willing to die to stop him becoming a pawn in this Templar’s game._

_None of it matters in the end, no matter how careful you are; you infiltrate the grounds and the manor, every action, every kill carefully planned and well-executed. One slip-up, one mistake that you take too long to correct, and alarm bells are ringing, voices are shouting, metal sings as cutlasses are unsheathed._

Damn it. _You’ve come too far to leave now, gotten too close – if you flee now, the Templars will be a step closer to your Father’s Folly, and your Brotherhood will be a step closer to ruin._

_Edward is furious when he finds you, bleeding from a lucky swipe to your arm, a bruise blossoming on your jaw from a strike where you’d gotten too close. He fights his way to you, shouts your name a second too late –_

* * *

“Last chance, my dear.” His voice is a whisper against your ear, your blood on his hands warm against your skin. “Tell me where it is and I can make this quick.”

You hang your head with a tired sigh.

* * *

_“Wake up, lad, come on!”_

_You’re bound to a chair, coarse ropes biting into your skin and your head pounding. Opening your eyes is a struggle; you blink to clear your blurry vision, tugging fruitlessly against the restraints despite knowing you won’t get free, and you hear a relieved sigh from opposite you._

_Edward, bound similarly to yourself, stripped of his armour and weapons, sitting in only his breeches and shirt. You realise you’re in a similar state; the loose neckline of your shirt falls dangerously close to the lip of bandages around your chest. It will take one wrong move and your last secret will be stripped away._

_“What happened?” you ask softly, twisting your wrists against the rope._

_“You tell me,” Edward says. He leans forward, searching your face for something; his expression darkens as he takes in the bruise on your jaw. “We were to hit the manor together, aye? Or did my unwanted advances scare you off?”_

_“They’re weren’t –“ You stop yourself from finishing. This isn’t the place for this talk. “We can discuss last night later. Let’s get out of here first.”_

_“We wouldn’t be in this mess if you’d listened to me, lad –“_

_“I know that!” You take a breath, trying to calm your panic. “Later, Edward, alright?_ Later _.”_

_There’s a few minutes of silence as the two of you try to plan your way out. It’s broken by Edward, breathing a laugh, and grinning at your startled expression._

_“Suppose I got what I wanted, eh?” he asks aloud, chuckling. At your frown, he adds, “You Assassins live exciting lives.”_

_You want to laugh with him, you do, but what you say instead is, “And it usually leads us to an early grave.”_

_His light expression sobers. He opens his mouth again, starts to voice a plan, and is interrupted by the door swinging open. He stops talking and grinds his teeth together, putting together his fearsome reputation right before your eyes._

_“Have to say, mate,” he greets, leaning back in the chair with an air of a relaxation, “I’ve woken up in worse positions than this.”_

_“Your comfort is my main concern,” drawls the Templar. He strides between the two of you and towards the table, overlooking your weapons laid out like a seven-course meal. “Two Assassins,” he muses next, turning to lean against the dark wood. “How lucky I am.”_

_“He’s not an Assassin,” you say immediately, the words spilling out of your lips despite Edward saying your name, warning you to stay quiet. “He’s just a pirate in the wrong place at the wrong time.”_

_The Templar fixes you with an odd look and a smirk. “I suppose this is the part where you beg me to let him go?” You stay silent as he continues, “The part where you insist you don’t know him?”_

_He brandishes a knife, the blade a shining silver and the hilt bejewelled with red rubies. He checks his teeth in the reflection as he strolls between the two of you again; you don’t breathe properly until he sheathes it again. The threat remains, the scabbard for the small dagger well within in your view, and the Templar crosses the room to the door, swinging it open and allowing entry to four or five other men._

_Edward grins. “Now this is a party,” he says. “Shall I pay for the dancers or –“_

_He cuts off as the first brute strikes, his fist connecting with Edward’s mouth. A strangled scream escapes your mouth as Edward’s struck again, over and over hard enough to knock his head back against the back of the chair. You’re breathing heavily, aware of the Templar’s eyes on you as you dispel your previous statement that you and Edward have never met before._

_“A pirate in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he repeats, his hand trailing along your shoulder blades as he comes to stand behind you. “Am I to believe that was a lie?”_

_“What do you_ want _?” You can’t tear your eyes away from Edward, from the blood dribbling down his chin and onto his shirt, from the angry red swelling you can see on his cheeks and jaw, the lolling of his head as he spits to the side, clearing his mouth of blood._

“ _What do_ I _want?” asks the Templar. You can hear the amusement in his voice and you flinch as he places his hands on your shoulders, rubbing gently, massaging. “I think the more appropriate question is what do_ you _want?_ You _broke into_ my _home, after all.” He leans down, his mouth against your ear as he says, “Do I need to convince you to tell me what I want to know?”_

 _He nods towards the brutes and you jerk yourself away from the Templar as a fist beats into Edward’s stomach, drawing a groan from the pirate and a gasp from you; Edward’s completely winded, gasping and coughing for breath. You lean forward, trying in vain to reach him, to_ stop _this, and the Templar’s hands on your shoulders are hard as he throws you back._

_“What’s this?”_

_Your heart drops like a stone. His hands are gentle as he pulls back your shirt, peering in at the bandages around your chest. Edward jerks against his restraints at the sight of the blade being unsheathed, and you still as the shining metal is slipped between your skin and the cotton, slicing through it._

_“If you touch him, the Devil help me –“_

“Him?” _repeats the Templar, laughing. He peels the bandages away and tosses them at Edward’s feet. “Perhaps I truly was mistaken. You appear to not know one another at all.”_

_You can hardly meet Edward’s eyes; he looks from the bandages to you once, twice, barely seeming to understand at first but suddenly growing angry. You drop your head as your eyes blur with tears and your throat burns as try to fight them off._

* * *

He’s going to shoot you and hang your corpse from the bow of his ship, he tells you, like the thought will scare you into speaking.

You tell him to make sure you’re positioned nicely and expect the backhand you receive.

* * *

 _He figures out who you_ are _hours later; it’s the only thing you’re willing to tell, the only information you can give that will stop them hurting Edward anymore, despite your Captain’s insistence that you keep your mouth shut. A hand clenches in his hair, forcing his head upwards – he can barely stay awake, you note with dismay, his face so swollen and bloodied you doubt he can see you anyway._

_Your heart breaks and the first of your tears spills down your cheeks. “The Pinos Isle,” you gasp, the lie leaving your lips around a sob._

_The Templar waves a hand idly towards the brute and Edward’s head slumps forward onto his chest._

_“You know this…_ how _?”_

_You look at the Templar, fire in your eyes and a multitude of insults on your lips. Instead, aware that you have to get Edward out of here, you tell him, “My father sent word before he disappeared. I’m the only one who knows where the treasure is.”_

Believe me, _you hope, watching as he turns to survey Edward’s limp body_. God, _he’s so still…_

_“Then I suppose we are done here,” he muses thoughtfully._

_He reaches for a flintlock pistol, aims it at Edward –_

“No!”

* * *

“Sir!” The voice is hurried, frantic. “There’s another ship docked off the side of the island. Flyin’ the black, sir.”

You don’t dare hope – who would know where you are anyway? Your chance at rescue had died when those ugly brutes tossed Edward’s body into the sea.

The Templar is just outside your tent, stopped, it would seem, on his way to ending your life. You throw your head back, leaning against the wooden pole and closing your eyes, using these last few moments of peace to remember better times: training with the Assassins on Tulum, so close yet so far; sailing with the Jackdaw, drinking with her crew; Edward’s arm around you, the smell of leather and gunpowder that clung to him; fighting by his side on the deck of a listing ship; the sun beaming brightly overhead and swimming in the ocean on a quiet day.

“Why does this concern me?” asks the Templar. “I’ve no interest in pirates.” He sighs, his voice grows more and more distant as he walks away. “Gather the men…”

You should have told Edward long ago that you weren’t who you said, you reflect then, as happy memories filter away and regrets take its place. So many things could have been avoided if you’d been _honest_.

 _Hindsight, you bastard_ , you think to yourself, sighing.  

The sounds of gunfire and clashing swords draws closer, voices shouting, men screaming. One voice rises above them all, so familiar you think you might be dreaming, and you close your eyes to will it so.

“Spare no man,” you hear roared, rage in the voice unlike anything you’ve ever heard in your life.

“Hear that lads?” shouts another, gruffer, “We give no quarter!”

The declaration is met with cheers and renewed gunfire; the flaps of your tent are sprayed with blood as someone tries to duck inside, to hide you imagine, and instead is struck down. Blood pools on the stone under your feet, filling the cracks – you see black and red, a member of the Templar’s crew. The body is followed by another – a white shirt stained with blood, a cutlass in his hand dripping with it. He eyes you severely, starts towards you.

“This is _your_ fault,” he says angrily, “he’s here for _you_.”

Your brows pull together. “Who?” you croak, staring up at him in confusion. How could the pirates be here for you? No one knows where you are.

He twists your hair in his hand, forcing your head back and baring your throat. The blood on the blade is still warm against your skin. You twist your wrists against the ropes, your breaths coming in shallow gasps.

“Stand aside,” the Templar orders from behind him, throwing aside the tent flaps and striding in. You’re thrown roughly to the ground, the rope binding you to the support beam the only thing keeping you upright. In his hand is the bejewelled dagger, the blade shining more ominously than you remember.

“You Assassins just don’t know how to _die_ , do you?” he snarls in your face, holding the blade to your throat. You frown, a question on your lips and a hope niggling at the back of your mind.

There’s a sickening squelching sound from the entrance to the tent, the thumping of a body hitting the floor, the singing of metal on stone as the cutlass drops from his hand. The Templar stands and you peer up, straight into the furious and familiar eyes of Edward Kenway.

His eyes skim over you intently, cataloguing injuries and hurts, resting finally on your tearful eyes and the gasping and hopeful sobs you can’t stop from leaving your lips. He’s still looking worse for wear, you note, his face a picture of mottled blue and purple bruises but none of that seems to bother him; he’s wearing his armour again, the blue and white of his robes hidden beneath the leather pads and bracers. All he’s missing, you realise, as your teary eyes flicker towards them, are his hidden blades.

“Can’t say I appreciated you stealing my blades, mate,” Edward says. “Coulda just got your own.”

“Rich words from a pirate,” returns the Templar. He stills sounds confident, you note blearily, despite the odds stacked against him.

Edward shrugs, unworried. His eyes flicker to the dagger in the Templar’s hand; you see the flicker of recognition in his eyes and recall that moment, _that_ one, where the blade had sliced through the last of your defences and exposed your final secret.

If Edward’s sharing any of these thoughts, he doesn’t show it.

“You know,” he starts, rolling his shoulders and readying himself for a fight, “for a Templar, your choice in weapon is questionable.”

The Templar grinds his teeth together. “It’s small enough to slit the throat of your woman here.”

Hate flickers in Edward’s eyes. “Aye, mate, though this time I’m in a position to carry through on my threats. Devil help me, I’ll cut you open and strangle you with your insides.”

The Templar, to his credit, doesn’t flinch or pale. His hand clenches around the hilt of the blade in his hand and he staggers back a step as dark shadows fill the entryway of the tent. For the first time in weeks, hope flares in your chest. You’re not ashamed of the tears that stream down your cheeks, or the sobs that build in your chest and wrack your shoulders.

“I yield,” says the Templar immediately.

Blackbeard reaches for a flintlock, unhooking it from its holster easily. “Not good enough,” he snarls.

You flinch at the gunshot but are gratified by the sounds of the Templar’s agonised screaming. You watch in a daze as Blackbeard towers over the writhing man, pressing a black and muddied boot into the bullet wound and _pushing_.

The ropes around your wrists fall away and you drop your hands in relief, sighing softly. Large hands gently cup your face, mindful of the bruises you wear and the cuts on your cheeks. Edward’s saying your name, over and over, and cursing you in the same breath for your brave stupidity.

“Damn it, lass,” he murmurs, leaning his forehead against yours. Your hands shake as you lift them, trembling fingers interlocking with his. “Don’t do that again.”

You huff a tearful laugh. “I’m not thinking of doing much except sleeping for the next year, Captain.”

“Kenway,” barks Blackbeard over the Templar’s screaming. Edward looks away from you, his expression darkening as he returns his attention to the Templar. “Finish, won’t ye? I’ll take care of yer lass from here.”

“Aye,” says Edward, jaw clenched in fury. He squeezes your hands as he rises, leans forward to press a kiss to your chapped lips; Blackbeard claps him on the shoulder in passing, his eyes gentling when they land on you. He might be older than Edward by a fair margin, you think, but he’s still as strong, heaving you into his arms with no trouble and carrying you from the tent.

The Templar screams moments later, a sound that echoes through the trees, and you rest your head against Blackbeard’s shoulder with a sigh.

* * *

There are bruises all over Edward’s body but none scare you so much as the bullet wound hidden behind the wrappings of bandage.

“I’m damn lucky your Assassin friends were looking for you,” he tells you softly, as your hands brush over the rough fabric. You lean forward, pressing a gentle kiss to it, pressing your regrets and sorrows into the wound. You’d tried to save him with your lie and almost failed. “I would’ve never got to you if not for them.”

You make a mental note to thank your Assassin friends later, when you’re back on your feet and not bed-ridden.

His voice is wistful as he murmurs, “I almost didn’t.”

Your fingers still their tracing of his wounds. His fingers tilt your chin up, until your eyes meet; what a pair you must seem, you think, beaten and bruised and tired as you both are. He’s mindful of your split lip as he kisses you again, mindful that your wounds are still fresh and tender.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him breathlessly, turning your eyes towards the skull tattoo on his chest, tracing the anchor and wheel design it sits in the centre of. He lifts a hand to grasp yours, his skin as warm as you remember; you realise you’ve _missed_ human touch that isn’t a fist to your mouth or a kick in your stomach. You’ve missed gentle touches like this, _safe_ touches, touches that set your skin alight and your stomach aflutter.

You ignore the shaking of his head, talk over him as he starts to say your name, “I should have told you from the start –“

“Well, aye,” he agrees reluctantly, cutting you off, “it would’ve saved a lot of trouble you know.”

You pause, chewing your lip nervously before saying, “You said you wanted excitement, right?”

He grins. “That I did.” He takes a breath and cringes, a hand coming up to rest over the bandages. “Let’s take a break from the excitement for now though, aye? Even I have my limits.”

You huff a laugh, reaching for him as you lean against the cushions of his bed. The doctor is due in soon, you remember Edward telling you, to check up on the two of you; you think you’ve time for a quick nap.

You curl up close to his warm body, his heartbeat steady against your ear and his arm around your shoulders.

“You’ve no idea the relief I’m feeling right now,” he admits softly. “You had me thinking my preferences had changed there, lass.”

You chuckle. “And what if they had?”

You feel him shrug. “Wouldn’t have stopped me.” He stops, his thumb rubbing circles on your arm. “If I recall correctly, it were you who stopped _me_ , eh?”

“True,” you murmur tiredly, “didn’t want you getting all confused.”

“That’s not possible. Never confused when it comes to you.”

 _We’ll see about that_ , you want to say but his heartbeat is steady like a drum, luring you to sleep and to dreams and the first restful sleep you’ve had in weeks.


	10. Stories [Edward Kenway]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s just a story,” you repeat tiredly. You lean against the barrel at your back, fixing the cabin boy with a reassuring grin. “It’s not real.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> halloween '16 fic! 
> 
> this is the original drabble that inspired [In the Mist](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10367895/chapters/22905717)!

The fog is thick, obscuring all hopes of vision, but the ship sails on.

Captain Howell hides his unease well, better than his crew do, and you’ve no idea why they’re so nervous until you overhear their whispers.

“This is huntin’ grounds for the _Jackdaw_ ,” hisses one, emptying his pipe overboard. “Mark my words: if we don’t get outta this weather soon, we ain’t ever leavin’.”

“What’s the Jackdaw?” asks the cabin boy, Jimmy, leaning over to look into the choppy water. He’s new to the ship, cheeks still tinted green from a bout of sickness he’d taken on after boarding, and a ripple goes through the crowd as the boy waits for an answer.

“The Ghost Ship,” says the carpenter, Henry, older and wiser than the rest. Jimmy looks at no one else but him, his green cheeks going pale. “Captained by the Devil ‘imself.”

“Sunk the unsinkable that ship did,” adds another. The smell of his pipe is heavy in the damp air; overhead, the masts creak as the sails ruffle in the wind. You turn your gaze outwards again, squinting into the grey, _waiting_.

“As soon as the Jackdaw sets her sights on ye,” continues Henry, stroking his beard, “it’s over. Ain’t no one ever survived the Jackdaw.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s a story,” you snap, “and stories come from somewhere.” A pause; you receive nothing but confused looks. “Obviously _some_ one survived to _tell_ the story.”

Disgruntled grumbles follow your words. You turn your eyes to the grey again, shaking your head and sighing in frustration. What you wouldn’t give for this fog to clear, for your feet to be on solid ground again. What you wouldn’t give to be surrounded by people who _care_ for your opinion, who care for _you_.

Your eyes find Jimmy again, his wide eyes peering into the fog, the paleness of his skin, the fearful trembling of his hands.

“It’s just a story,” you repeat tiredly. You lean against the barrel at your back, fixing the cabin boy with a reassuring grin. “It’s not real.”

In hindsight, you’ll wonder if fate was working against you then, choosing that exact moment to turn your world upside down, to blow it to smithereens. You’ve a split-second to return the thankful nod Jimmy gives you, a split-second where you turn your gaze back to the fog, your grin still on your lips.

A split-second is all it takes for you to see it, for you to _hear_ it.

Muted bangs, splashes of orange-red light in the grey – cannon fire.

“ _Man the cannons_!” bellows Captain Howell. He holds his spyglass in a white knuckled grip. “Bear arms!” 

He snaps at the helmsman to get the ship out of the fog, an impossible task that has your heart bleeding for the poor man, but Jimmy draws your attention – his first fight, you think, the first real danger your ship has had to face.

“It’s the Jackdaw, isn’t it?” he whimpers fearfully, clutching at your shirt, looking up at you tearfully.

“No,” you tell him firmly. You take his face in your hands, anchoring him to you, encouraging him to _look_ at you, to _focus_ on you. “The Jackdaw isn’t _real_. It’s just another ship, just another pirate ship. Arm yourself, Jimmy. _Now_.”

He gets three steps before there are more muted bangs, before you hear the cannonballs whistling through the air, the splintering of the wood around you as the rounds hit the masts. Your breath catches in your throat as you eye the chunk missing from the main mast; it’s almost in half, crumbling in on itself and falling sideways.

You manage to dart to the side in time to avoid being crushed by it. Men are screaming around you, clutching at bloody wounds on their bodies – Henry, wise, sweet Henry with his stories and his knowledge, lies slumped against the Captain’s door, a shard of wood through his chest, blood on his lips and on his chin.

“Christ,” you murmur. You’re still unarmed when you hear the cheers from the other ship, a deeply unsettling sound that has you spinning towards it. You can see the ship now, an outline of a brig no bigger than the ship you’re on currently. The way their shot had ripped the ship to pieces, you were expecting a galleon – this only confuses you.

Grappling hooks latch onto the sides, drawing their ship closer. Jimmy grasps your arm as you scan the deck for Captain Howell, as you try to locate surviving crew members. Most are staggering to their feet, wrenching splintered wood from their arms and legs, wiping blood from their eyes. You realise, despite your near miss with the mast, you’re largely unharmed; you’ve cuts and scrapes, you note, but nothing majorly harmful.

You count seven, yourself and Jimmy included. The cabin boy is pressing a cutlass into your hand as Captain Howell stumbles down the stairs. There’s a wild look in his eye as he faces the ship, a crazed note to his voice as he waves his sword over his head.

“Come and get me, Devil,” he cries. Through the heavy fog you see a silhouette, reaching for a rope and standing on the edge of their ship. “You’ll not kill me today!”

Your warning comes a second too late. The figure leaps from the ship, swinging across the gap –

Captain Howell crumples like paper, folding in on himself with a blade sticking out of his throat. You see the man, a hooded spectre in the fog, rising slowly and deliberately, and you back away, your hand on Jimmy’s shoulder to guide him behind you. What the devil have you sailed into, you wonder, and the stories about the Jackdaw, about her Devil Captain whisper at the back of your mind.

“We yield!” cries one of your fellow crew, setting his sword down, lowering himself to his knees. “Please…”

The spectre appears satisfied, a grim smirk crossing his features as he looks over the ship. His eyes are hidden beneath the shadow of his hood but somehow you _know_ when they land on you. He cocks his head, peering curiously at Jimmy behind your back, and your resolves tightens.

You lift your cutlass, ready to kill him if he takes another step.

More boots land on the deck of your sinking ship, pistols are lifted and aimed at you. The man before you lifts one hand, a silent gesture that does nothing to soothe your unease. The pistols are lowered in any case, asserting only one thing in the craziness of your thoughts: _Captain_.

“Put it down,” he says, advancing ever still. You’ve nowhere to go now; Jimmy’s pressed up against the ship. When you don’t move, he reaches for his own pistol never pausing his nonchalant swagger as he aims at your head. “Now.”

You hesitate only briefly but eventually do as he says.

Jimmy whimpers, clutching still to your shirt. “You said they didn’t exist,” he whispers to you but the smile that crosses the Captain’s face tells you that he’s heard.

You can hardly control your panicked breathing as they wrench you away from Jimmy, binding your wrists and forcing you to kneel in front of the Devil.


	11. Paper Decorations [Edward Kenway]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She’s dressed as a pirate, inspired by the recent discovery that her name matches the very same fierce scoundrel who roved the seas three hundred years ago. You, on the other hand, have been so stressed with work and life that the only costume you’ve managed to put together is a white sheet with holes cut into it; a half-assed attempt at being a ghost if ever you saw one._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> halloween '16 fic, _extremely_ AU!

Mary greets you at the door, eyeing your hastily put together costume with a sigh and a disappointed shake of the head. How she’s able to tell it’s you hidden under the white sheet, you’re not sure, but she gestures you inside anyway, adjusting her shirt and hair absentmindedly.

“Sorry,” you mumble. You accept the red plastic cup she presses into your hands without argument. “I forgot…”

She hooks an arm around your neck, pulling you close to her with a laugh. “Just try n’ ‘ave fun, aye?”

She’s dressed as a pirate, inspired by the recent discovery that her name matches the very same fierce scoundrel who roved the seas three hundred years ago. You, on the other hand, have been so stressed with work and _life_ that the only costume you’ve managed to put together is a white sheet with holes cut into it; a half-assed attempt at being a ghost if ever you saw one.

And with the effort every else seems to have put into Mary’s get together, you’re glad your burning cheeks are hidden from them all.

You quickly down the drink handed to you and refill the cup, desperate in your need to forget the awful day you’ve had. You steer clear of the other party guests and linger by the drinks table, watching Mary and her on-again, off-again girlfriend Anne. They’re chatting with a man you don’t recognise, dressed as a pirate like Mary but with less effort put into it than your friend.

It makes you feel a little better about your meagre costume.

As soon as he starts staggering towards you, you turn your back and refill your cup, wordlessly offering him the ladle for the punch when he appears.

“Nah,” he says, waving his hand. He reaches instead for something stronger; rum. “Not here to get tipsy, mate, here to get _drunk_.”

Your eyebrows rise. “Pass some of that then,” you say, grabbing an empty cup.

“Alright then,” he says but he stops you from taking a cup, instead handing you the bottle. “Ain’t having you drinking rum from a plastic cup. We’ll share.”

You shrug, grasping the bottle by its slim neck and taking a hearty swig. It burns beautifully.

“I’m Edward,” introduces your drinking buddy, shaking your hand firmly. He adjusts the trademark eyepatch he wears, looking you up and down as you introduce yourself in turn. He grins. “Must say, your costume makes me feel better about my shitty attempt.”

You chuckle. “Funny that – I was thinking the same thing about yours.”

“Hey! I’m wearing an eyepatch, that’s plenty.”

“And I’m wearing a bed sheet,” you point out, taking the bottle from his hand again. “That required _tonnes_ of thought.”

He leads you towards the couch by the window, clearing the cushions of paper spiders and pumpkins and abandoned plastic cups. Mary and Anne have made themselves scare as you tug the bed sheet from your head, tossing it over the back of the sofa and taking a seat beside Edward. There’s a strange silence and an odd look on his face as he looks at you, handing the rum over when you reach for it.

“What?” you ask, taking another drink.

“Nothing,” he replies. “Just thought you were wearing a sheet because you were hideous or something.”

“Thanks.”

He shrugs but you don’t think there’s anything malevolent in his words. A comfortable silence descends on the two of you as you share the bottle, neither of you speaking until it’s empty and a drunken haze has fallen over you. You’re not sure when it happened but Edward’s put an arm around your shoulders and pulled you close to his side. You’re exhausted and content, resting your head on his shoulder and largely ignoring the party happening around you, quite content to drift off to sleep as Edward asks someone to grab another bottle of rum from the table.

“This is nice,” you comment idly, tiredly, eyes closed as Edward runs a hand up and down your arm. This is the drink, you tell yourself, because usually you’re not like this with someone you’ve just met.

“Aye it is,” he returns.

There’s a content smile on your face that quickly turns into a terrified shriek when you open your eyes to look at him.

Instead, you come face to face with a clown mask, its eyes black and its grin a terrible mass of sharpened teeth and red paint. You vaguely hear laughter as you scramble to move away, to flee from the nightmarish person in front of you.

Edward surges forward, his fist catching the clown in the jaw, and the laughter stops.

“ _Jaysus_ Kenway!” hollers your assailant, removing his mask and clutching at the side of his face. “Learn to take a bloody joke, will ye?”

“Learn not to be a bastard, Ben,” snaps back Edward, as your eyes take in the man standing before you; dark hair and thick sideburns, rubbing his jaw where a red mark is beginning to blossom. “We were havin’ a good time just fine without you.”

“Aye, a _good time_ ,” repeats Ben. “I’m sure that’s not all you’re havin’.”

“Piss off, Ben!”

He ambles away with a laugh, the clown mask swinging in his hand. Your heart’s hammering in your chest as you try to catch your breath; you wrench the bottle of rum from Edward’s hand before he can say anything, drinking and drinking and trying to _forget_.

“Christ,” you breathe when you finish, handing the bottle off without looking at him. “Your friends are assholes.”

“Aye, don’t have to tell me that,” responds Edward. He takes a drink. “You’re preaching to the choir with that one.” He pauses. “Ye alright?”

“Fine,” you reply immediately. You’re conditioned to, after all. “Totally fine.”

He looks like he doesn’t believe you. “Alright.”

Mary sidles up with a frown on her face and a lipstick stain on her neck. “Everythin’ alright?”

“Aye,” replies Edward for you, as you nervously shred a paper spider in your hands. “Ben’s bein’ an asshole again, that’s all.”

Mary’s expression darkens. “He does anythin’ else, let me know, eh? I’ll boot the prick from my house no problem.”

“I handled it.”

“I don’t care.”

You’ve shredded two spiders, a pumpkin and a ghost before she leaves and are reaching for your bed sheet and shoes (when did you take them off?) when Edward reaches for your hand.

“Hey, you don’t have to leave because of that prick,” he says gently.

“It’s not just him,” you mutter. “I really should be going –“

You stand up and the drink goes _straight_ to your head. The room spins, you stumble, and Edward catches you as you fall clumsily back onto the sofa.

“Oh,” you murmur, eyes wide. How much have you drank?

Edward insists then that you can’t leave, not in this state, and you agree with him without listening to what he’s saying. He laughs breathlessly – how is he not as drunk as you? – and keeps drinking; there’s a flush to his cheeks and a twinkle in his eyes and the music is louder than it was and the lights somehow brighter.

“Stick with me, lass,” says Edward. You hear the beginnings of a slur to his words and realise he’s just better at pretending than you are. He’s going too. “Everything will be alright.”

“Aye, aye Captain,” you hear yourself say, reaching for the bottle and taking another swig.

You remember snuggling into his side again, close enough that you can see the scar on the side of his face and the little freckles across his cheeks. You remember finishing another bottle and tasting the rum on his lips.

* * *

And he’s still there when you wake up the following afternoon.


End file.
